The funny thing is, growing up in the shithole that is most of Dunwall, there isn't even any question about what you're gonna do. Even before the plague hit- the rules were simple. Merchant families keep selling. Noble families keep ruling. If you're in the slums, you aren't getting out unless you're drafted into the Navy or tossed in a cell.

For us folk living right up on the Wrenhaven- and I mean right on the river, in the shanty-village on Endoria, spitting distance from those mansions on John Clavering- the young grow up faster than they should, watching` their innocence get slaughtered before their eyes- maybe by a guard's pistol, maybe an overseer's sword, maybe a gang member's cleaver. One way or another, it happens. Doesn't matter how.

And then you've got the orphans. Dunwall's underworld thrives on orphans. The gangs pick 'em up, hire 'em as eyes and ears and maybe pick 'em up as full members once they're a bit older and less likely to shit themselves at the sight of blood.

I was one of those kids, a while back. Long before the plague and everything went to shit- back when the Hatters was just about the only gang in the whole city of Dunwall. They had the place locked down- nothing happened in the underworld without the Geezer lookin' it over and signing it in triplicate. Whenever someone tried to step up, they'd get their throat slashed. That happened a lot.

The whales changed that. As soon as people started realizing how valuable the oil was, the ships started heading out, bringing the beasts in a slicing them up in the factories and slaughterhouses. Those slaughterhouses hired armed guards and upgraded security, and the Hatters started losing ground on that end. When people saw the Hatters taking a hit, they started looking for an opportunity. Little crews started popping up everywhere- Lizzy Stride and the Dead Eels, Jim Dundermoore and the Parliament Street Cutters, so on. 'Bout the same time, this kid who'd run with us for ages started taking more initiative. Running extortion rings near the factories. Taking up residence in the deserted strip between the slaughterhouses and the Hatters territory. His name was Mike the Fish. I wasn't good friends with Mike himself, but I ran with their group. Figured it was as good a way to survive as any I had.

I'd heard about the kids on the other side of the river- I'd grown up near John Clavering, as I mentioned, so I knew a couple of faces from the south side, but I hadn't crossed the city in years by the time this story starts.

Mike had gotten the smart idea to expand our operations across the river- we'd built things into a pretty easy rhythm by that point. Case a factory, watch the workers for a day or two, pick our mark, follow him home. Once we know where he lives we start harassing him, break-ins and beatings when they're alone and sooner or later they either start paying up or they left the neighborhood, opening space for a new worker to start again on.

And Mike had things pretty set- all signs say he's going up in the world. The Hatters were taking a beating from Black Sally's Gang, and there were rumors some new lady had come on in and started a gang o' pirates on the Wrenhaven- the Dead Eels, they were calling 'em. So we spent a day or two camped out on Gaff Street, in this shitty little hovel that we can barely cram into- watching. Just watching. Figure we're close enough to the folks who work in the Distillery on Bottle Street that we might get a chance to bring one o' their workers round to our way of seeing things.

Of course, Bottle Street's Hatter territory, so we get jack shit two nights in a row. Maybe they knew we was there, maybe they was just being cautious 'cause o' the hidin' they was getting from Black Sally.

Mike don't mind, though. Mike was an alright guy, if not the brightest. So he gives us the night off and says we'll head out back for the north side in the morning.

We were about two dozen then, so about half of us head to the brothels and about half of what's left head out drinking, while the last half-dozen head to the penny-theater on the riverside. And it's a beautiful night, and Mike's got his girl with him and Tatters- Tatters's the friend who got me into working with Mike in the first place- Tatters has his little brother who'd just started working with us and can still barely hold a gut knife. Kid was smart though, and folks are a lot more likely to stop to help a little kid than they is to help a full-grown man. Kid was named Andrew, but we called him Bits. Other three are me (that's Jim Awson), Boo Caffney, and Thomas Harding. We're all armed, even Bits, but I figure there's no way anything's gonna happen tonight. We's only armed in case we run into some trouble with the Hatters getting back home tomorrow.

So Tatters and his brother and I are smoking, and Mike and the rest are chewing tobacco and spitting it into this spittoon. And the spittoon is this big ceramic thing, all covered in flower designs. There's one of 'em every few seats- they belonged to the theater, they put 'em there to try and get the audience to stop spitting on the floor, I guess. I only mention it because It gets important in a second.

So we're all sitting there and laughing at the show, and Mike's a little drunk, and Tatters turns to help Bits get another light.

"Hey, look." he says, nudging me. "We've got some admirers."

I turn, and see he's almost backwards in his seat. I glance up, and a couple rows behind us there's another group, 'bout as many people as us, six or seven. And three of 'ems looking right at Mike.

"Mike" I say, real slow. "There's some people watchin' you."

And he glances over his shoulder and then chuckles a bit.

"It's whasisname." He says. "The one who works with Black Sally."

His voice was a little slurred, but it wasn't until he stood up and wobbled a little that I realized how drunk he was. So he picks up this big spittoon, the ceramic one I mentioned earlier, and he hefts it in one hand and just tosses it. And by this point we ain't even pretending to watch the show, and all six of us are just watching Mike. So he's got this spittoon in one hand and he just kinda lobs it, right over peoples heads. And it catches one of the guys watching us in the chin and shatters, and there's blood bits of fucking spittoon scattered across the row.

Mike's got this big grin on his face, and he just mutters "Got 'im" under his breath. And the guy he hit stands up and he's got blood dripping down his face and his chin is all off center, and he and Mike just stare at eachother for a second. I've got my hand on my knife and I hear Tatters mutter something to bits and then lift his brother onto his shoulders. Tatters is a big guy, and I had no doubt he was planning on just barreling through them if he had to to get his brother outta there. Loyalty to your crew is one thing, but family is another.

Then this guy, blood staining his shirt, just turns and waves for his crew to follow him out the door.

"That's right!" shouts Mike "You run your ass back to your whorehouse, hide with the ladies." (Mike is real proud of knowing his parents, even though they's both dead). Pretty soon the whole theater was laughing, and we sat back down and the actors kept going- not really sure when they stopped- and we spent a while longer there.

After we were done, we helped Mike get him girl home and left 'em there together before heading back to Gaff for the last night on this side of the river.

I woke to two people arguing.

"The plan was to wait here until he showed up-"

"It's three in the afternoon! How likely do you think he is to show up at this point?"

I sat up, stretching and trying to get the soreness out of my shoulders. Our base on the other side might be bare, but at least it was big enough for us to have our own sleeping spots.

Boo and Thomas was arguing, with a group of people watching. Most of us were still asleep, but Tatters and Bits were sitting near me. Tatters waved me over.

"Mike still hasn't showed." Tatters said as I lowered myself to the ground. "He was supposed to be here by one, at the latest, so we could cross the river and make the landing during the one-thirty shift change on the dock-guards. But he's almost two hours late."

"You figure something's happened to him?" I asked.

Tatters shrugged. "We're trying to stay out of it, but Boo's probably right. If Mike was gonna show he'd have done it by now. We need to go find him or cut our losses and head back across the river. Thomas is dragging his feet, saying we need to wait for Mike to show up here."

Outta nowhere, somebody shouts "Y'know what, fuck you!" and we look up. Boo's pulled a pistol on Thomas. Before anyone can do react, Boo's got his gun up against Thomas's face and he pulls the trigger. Thomas fell backwards, a chunk taken out of his jaw. For a second, there's silence, and we all figure Thomas is dead. Then he starts moaning, real soft at first, but then he's screaming his head off.

"Shut up!" Boo shouts, and he kinda drops onto Thomas's legs and just starts stabbing him, but Thomas won't stop screaming. Half his chin gone, blood pouring out of his gut, and he wont stop screaming. Boo just keeps knifing him, again and again. Finally Tatters just steps up and shoves Boo off of Thomas and slashes what's left of his throat.

Thomas stopped screaming pretty quick after that. Boo stood up and chuckled.

"Serves him right, the dumb bas-"

Before Boo could finish his insult, Tatters had picked him up and had him against the wall, one arm pinning his throat.

"You don't do that shit again." Tatters growled "Or I''ll stick a blade in your eye, understand?"

Boo managed to get out a "He was a-" but Tatters just pushed harder on his throat and muttered, real quiet, "Not again."

Boo nodded, and Tatters dropped him, walking away.

"Now then, we'd best be headin' over to Mike's." said Tatters. "If he ain't there, we'll cross the river and wait for news, understood?"

A couple of people muttered under their breath, but for the most part the group nodded.

We set out, following the alleyways to avoid the visibility of John Clavering. Tatters was in the lead, Bits on his shoulders. The rest of us was all following along in a ragged group, with Boo bringing up the rear and muttering.

Finally, we reach the corner next to Mike's house, and Tatter's lifts Bits off his shoulders and sets him on the ground.

I didn't mean to give the wrong impression earlier, when I said Bits was barely able to hold a gut knife. The kid is smart, and more importantly, he's small. Bits was our lookout- back before Mike had us workin' the factories, he would be the one who'd sweet talk the farmer on his cart or whoever to tellin' him how much money he had on him. And, with Tatters's help, the kid could get lifted onto a balcony or through a window or whatever and unlock the door from the inside. He was a valued member of our team.

So it was Bits who stuck his head out first, and therefore Bits who saw what had happened first.

"Aw, shit." he muttered.

"What is it?" asked Tatters.

Bits took a step out from the corner, starin' off at somethin' we couldn't see. The rest of us are followin' him though, so we go around the corner and there's Mike, slumped up against the wall, all torn to pieces. His shirt was all blood and rags, and his arm was real messed up, like something had torn into it.

The grizzliest part o' this whole picture though is the nail driven through his forehead, holdin' a piece of paper with somethin' scribbled on it.

My ma used to work as a maid for this rich asshole who worked in Rudshore. Payed shit, but it fed her. Then they found out she was gonna have me, and they dropped her off on Emporia with about a week's pay. My dad was some colleague o' her boss, but he didn't do jack shit when that all happened. Anyway I reckon you count up all the bastard orphans in Dunwall and throw 'em in a cell and you'd get rid of about seventy-five per-cent of your gangs.

My ma taught me my letters though, and that made me unique in this lifestyle, so when Tatters tore the nail out of Mike's face with a grunt, he handed me the note. It'd been ages since I'd needed to read, and the paper was stained with blood and dirt, but after a little bit of puzzling I figured it out.

"It says" I say "If you want a job, come to Bottle Street."