I didn't even finish the game why did I write this.
And Dishonored 2 is coming out too. CAN'T W AIT FOR ANOTHER GAME I WON'T FINISH.
I guess this is sort of a continuation of my other fanfic "God of Forgotten Things" using the same characterization of the Outsider.
The man in front of her holds a smooth, red ball in between his pale hands. Without a word, he throws it towards her. The ball bounces off of the paved cobblestone floor of the street with a resounding thud, the sound echoing off of the ramshackle buildings surrounding the two of them; she catches it in her outstretched hands, smiling in satisfaction as she does so before tossing the ball back to the man.
His lips quirk up in an expression that almost mirrors her own, but his mimicry makes it all the more evident that something isn't all there in his smile. The street is illuminated only by the flickering yellow light of a single lamppost, so she's not quite sure if there are any whites in his coal-black eyes. He tosses the ball back to her; the tips of her fingers scrabble against its spherical surface. It drops from her clumsy grip and bounces by her Mary-Janes.
The man smiles still as her face heats up in embarrassment. She snatches up the ball, rears her arm back, and hastily lobs it at the man. With a sidestep, the man gets out of the ball's trajectory and it lands with another thud, followed by a sickening crash.
Her mouth falls open as she spots the boy falling, his head colliding against the cobblestone. She didn't even see a trace of him behind the strange man, but without a single thought, she dashes over to him to check his condition.
There's blood behind his head. It catches the light of the lamppost as it slowly oozes out from his wound with every second. A gasp leaves her mouth, and she's seen dead bodies before, gathered around a table. She's seen blood before, trickling down the eyes of plague victims. She's seen this before, but the rasping sound of the boy's faint breaths is so much worse.
Her head swivels around to the man. Her eyes catch his, and this close, she can see that he definitely has no whites in his eyes. The realization makes her hesitate, and before she can recover, he speaks to her.
His thick eyebrows are furrowed in discontent as he asks, "What shall you do, Empress?"
After two close escape attempts, Emily was locked into a small room with no windows, a creaky wooden floor, and yellowing wallpaper.
The moment she was shoved into the room by the Madam, she whirled around to bite and kick her way out, only to have the door slammed in her face. She then spent the next few minutes overturning the chairs, the metal bed frame, the cot, tearing up the wallpaper and stomping the floor. She grabbed the chair once more, and her limbs creaked as she hurled it against the floor.
Loud. Louder.
She wanted it as loud as possible, wanted the commotion to travel through the aging floorboards through the entire building. She wanted the sound to ring in the ears of the greedy Madam, to blast in the faces of the brothel's dumb, unsuspecting customers.
When her arms finally grew tired, she slumped over on the floor, casting a glance over to the candelabra on the table.
But no, burning the whole building and herself would be foolish. The ones who killed her mother had spared her, a child, not out of the kindness of their hearts, but because they believed children were easily-manipulated. It was up to her to prove them wrong.
And now that she had failed twice, there would be no one to rescue her. Strangely enough, letting go of the hope of rescue was so much easier than holding on.
"What can I do for him? If Sokolov were here, he could help him. Do you know a doctor?" she rushes to say. She has no time to question the man's eyes and the strange intonation of his voice. There's a life to save!
"Perhaps," the man muses, turning away to pick up the forgotten red ball.
"Perhaps?" Emily exclaims, wondering how it is that the man can be so calm. "Perhaps, you can get him a doctor?"
"It was not my throw which downed the boy, Empress," the man says, brushing tiny pebbles off of the ball.
Emily pales. "Th-then I will get the doctor! Please, just tell me which street!"
"Why so desperate?"
"I don't want him to die! As Empress, it is my duty to protect every citizen of Dunwall."
"Ah," the man says, as if a puzzle piece has just slotted into place. "If he dies, it would be murder and then, even as Empress, you could be persecuted for your crime. You have no need to worry, Empress. I am the only witness. You have my word that if you walked away right now, no one would know. No one would care. He is simply a nameless boy, one of many who die in the streets."
She gazes up at the man spewing these monstrous words. Gritting her teeth, she glances up and down the street before running away.
Emily Kaldwin supposes that change is all part of becoming empress. Her own mother before her must have felt the same.
In Corvo's absence, she tasted the first bitter hint of change in the stares of the grown-ups around her. Wallace swept into an elaborate bow every time they crossed paths, addressing her never by name, only by a pompous "My Empress." And so, she began peering around corners to avoid him. When she happened upon strategy meetings between Admiral Havelock and Lord Pendleton, the latter would immediately turn to her and ask her for her opinion on their plans while Havelock smacked his own forehead and breathed out an exasperated sigh. It was partially why she preferred talking to the admiral, besides the man's riveting nautical tales. A distraction from the realization that these Loyalists, who towered over her, were starting to look to her for guidance.
Or maybe, to see what they can take.
She knocks on all of the doors in the street, yelling for a doctor. The doors are ancient, her knocks ring hollow in the empty houses, and splinters lodge themselves in the soft flesh of her fist, but she continues running down the street. She might be the only one left alive in the world, for the only sound she can hear is the sound of her own shoes scuffling against the ground as she runs.
"Excuse me!" she yells again, the splinters driving deeper into her hand with every knock. "Does anyone know a doctor?"
"It would be much easier," says a familiar voice behind her. "To let him die."
Emily balls her hands into fists at her side. She's tiring quickly of this man and his utter lack of concern. "If you won't help me look for a doctor," Emily says, turning around. "Then go away! Why do you want him to die so badly?"
When she lays eyes on the man again, his feet aren't touching the ground.
"Strange," the deity remarks, leaning over to study the welts on her hands. "But interesting."
Emily's eyes fly open in the dim lighting of her room. The smell of cheap beer and marshland fills her nostrils as she sucks in a deep breath. She kicks off the covers, and Dunwall is always humid, but there is a disgusting dampness clinging to her skin. Beneath the shallow sound of her own breathing, there's a chorus of arcane whispers.
Beneath her pillow, as well. With a huff, she shoves her hand underneath her pillow, her fingers brushing against the smooth surface of carved whale bone. She pulls it out, and there's still smudges of dirt marring its etched circles and symbols.
She had been drawn to it for some inexplicable reason when she first saw it, so much so that she thought it to be some sort of good luck charm that would bring her good dreams. Even now, it purrs deceptively in her hand, willing her to drift back to sleep, back to her promised dreams.
But she knows already that the only things awaiting her are trials.
Author's Note: The Outsider is the worst test proctor.