welcome to my reincarnation au trash fic, please come and be trash with me

with many thanks to mengde, for admirable beta work and always noticing when I accidentally a word

Lariat

by Sylla

It had started with the dream. For as long as he could remember, Corvo had dreamed of wondrous, incredible things. He dreamed of falling through an endless nothing, of deep sea creatures, enormous whales so big they made him feel like an insect in comparison, rows of enormous teeth and white scars stark on sleek grey bodies. He dreamt of floating, buoyed on a sea of purple-blue light. That light suffused the dreams, throwing halos around the statues and street lamps and bits of old staircases that spun lazily, unmoored from all gravity, casting shadows that seemed somehow too stark in their wake. The light had always seemed to come from multiple sources, or perhaps from everywhere; Corvo had never been able to find the source. On some nights he felt as if he was close. When that happened, he felt as though, if he found the light's source and peered into it, that it might swallow him whole.

The dream didn't come every night, of course, but it came often enough that he'd eventually realized it wasn't normal. He'd never really told anyone about the dream, first because his youthful mind couldn't conjure the words to do it justice ("– and, and I saw a whale, mom, and it was huuuge–"); and then, as he grew older, because he'd started to grow almost… possessive of the dream. He didn't know why or how, but he had the feeling that it was his.

Tonight the dream was… different, somehow. It had always had an illusory sort of quality to it, like looking down at the bottom of a pond, but tonight everything was somehow sharper, clearer. He took a deep breath and felt more awake than ever. He stood at the edge of a precipice made from the façade of an old building, with nothing above him and nothing below and the light all around him, surrounding him and filling him so he could almost taste it on his back teeth.

"My dear Corvo," a voice said behind him, and Corvo nearly jumped out of his skin. In all the years he'd been having the dream, he'd never heard anyone speak. What was more, he realized with a jolt, he recognized the voice from somewhere. Somewhere. He tried to turn, only to find his body wouldn't respond.

"Not yet," the voice said, unbearably close this time. A sensation of fingers on the space between his shoulder blades sent ice shivering down his spine. "We've barely even begun and already it all threatens to come crumbling down around you. I wonder, are you ready?"

And Corvo, suddenly back in control of his own body, turned –

– and saw the source of the light for the very first time

and

fell

With a gasp, Corvo surfaced into the waking world. For a long moment he laid in his bed, waiting for his heart rate to return to normal. With a wince, he let go of his sheets – his hands had been so tightly fisted in them it almost hurt to unclench them.

"Corvo?" A voice drifted up from downstairs. His mother. "Shouldn't you be leaving soon? You'll miss your classes if you wait any longer."

What? He looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table and his stomach dropped out – he was late. How had he managed to sleep through the alarm? With a string of curses he leapt from the bed, or tried to: the sheets had managed to wind themselves around his legs, and he fell off the side of the bed, bruising his elbow.

"Corvo, are you all right?"

"Yes!" he called down, struggling out of the tangle of sheets.

Three minutes later, and certain he'd broken some sort of land speed record for fastest shower and change of clothes, he hurtled downstairs into the kitchen and snatched a slice of buttered toast from the counter. His mother was sitting at the kitchen table with a newspaper and a mug of coffee; he made sure to give her a kiss on the cheek before rushing back out again.

"Have a nice day," she called after him as he practically sprinted out of the house.

The commute was hell on a good day – not only because Corvo's motorbike was so old it was perpetually in danger of giving up the ghost (and the rail system was a joke; he'd probably get there sooner if he walked), but because Dunwall University's College of Fine Arts was smack in the center of Old Dunwall, right by the river, a nest of twisting cobblestone streets only half of which had been planned with any sort of vehicle in mind at all. Ironically, the relative wealth of the district had been its downfall: many poorer districts had been so devastated by the Rat Plague those few-hundred years ago they'd had no chance but to raze them completely and start from scratch. They'd been rebuilt with a mind to improve air quality and prevent another plague, and as a result were considerably more spacious. Old Dunwall, stretching from John Clavering Boulevard to Kaldwin Bridge, had been less affected by the plague, and so conserved the original street plan.

The tourism industry called it "authentic charm."

However, today the streets were mercifully free of traffic, or at least the sort of traffic he couldn't weave around, and in the end he was only five minutes late as he parked his bike on the corner outside the University's main building. There was a buzz in the air as he crossed the courtyard, and he arrived at the Art and Design History class only to find the professor wasn't even there yet. The other students were unusually animated for an early class, chattering amongst themselves.

"Corvo!"

He turned to see Callista waving him over from a seat halfway up the amphitheater. Cecelia was sitting next to her, looking as excited as was possible for her. Callista, a double History and Literature major, and Cecelia – like him, in Art and Design – had been two of the earliest friends he'd made at Dunwall U; something between the three of them had simply clicked, and they'd fallen into an easy friendship.

He made his way over and slid in next to them; there was an open newspaper lying on the desk.

"He's made another one," Callista said without preamble.

"What?" Corvo exclaimed. There was no need to specify which him she was talking about; there was only one him who could cause this much commotion amongst a bunch of aspiring artists.

The Outsider had made another painting.

"It was on the news this morning," Cecelia supplied. Callista pointed to a short article in the open newspaper.

"They're going to display it here for a few days before it's sold. Here, Corvo! We could go see it!"

"I – yeah," Corvo replied weakly. A chance to see one of the Outsider's paintings was no small thing; most of them were snapped up by private collectors as soon as they appeared. Corvo had only seen them in photographs. Rumor had it the paintings had an almost hypnotic effect when seen in person, but it was hard to separate truth from fiction, and artists were a melodramatic bunch.

Nobody knew the real identity of the artist everyone referred to as the Outsider; the paintings had begun to appear a little over a year ago and had rocketed to fame almost overnight. The name had come about because, whomever they were, they used the Outsider's mark as their signature. This little bit of heresy had been the first thing to attract the attention of Dunwall's rich socialites; after all, what better way to flaunt one's wealth and become an object of gossip at the same time than to purchase and display a painting with the Outsider's mark, with the excuse that it was art?

The Abbey of the Everyman had a fit every time a new painting surfaced, but their power had been in decline for the better part of a century; taunting them had practically become a game amongst Dunwall's elite by now.

"Sokolov is tearing his hair out," Callista continued.

"Oh?" Corvo raised his eyebrows.

"I heard him talking about it the other day." Cecelia's stare was boring a hole into the desk. "He thinks it's someone in the faculty stealing his thunder. He's obsessed with finding out who it is."

Corvo couldn't contain a laugh. Professor Sokolov had benefitted from a brief fad for portraits a while back; the man had painted the High Overseer as well as several prominent members of Dunwall's upper class. Now, however, all anyone wanted was the Outsider's brand of abstract expressionism. The Outsider had forced him out of the spotlight with an almost casual ease. Well, good. Out of all his teachers so far, Sokolov was by far his least favorite – irritable, proud, and absolutely intolerant of any talking whatsoever in his lectures.

"Speak of the Outsider," Callista muttered as the man himself strode into class with a place like a thundercloud, putting an end to any and all discussion.

The day passed with agonizing slowness for Corvo; he was filled with a strange mix of anticipation and anxiety, and he wasn't sure if it was because of the dream, or the painting, or both. Between classes, the three of them had tried several times to see the painting, but word had apparently spread quickly, and so many people had come to see it it had been impossible even to get into the hall where it was being displayed. In the end it was nearly six in the evening by the time the crowds had thinned out enough for them to make an approach.

Which was not to say it was easy: Corvo was forced to take advantage of his height to carve a path through the crowd and into the hall. The press of people was worse than the parties the student's union organized semi-regularly at the pubs along the waterfront, and Corvo quickly lost Callista and Cecelia in the mass of people. He couldn't quite see the painting from so far back, so he tried to move forward without stepping on too many toes. At last, a break in the crowd allowed Corvo to jam his shoulder through and wriggle through the space to the front, and –

The breath left his lungs like someone had punched him in the gut. There, on the canvas in front of him, stretched the stuff of dreams.His dream. The whale, the broken buildings, the blue-purple light. It was all perfectly represented, down to the strange, swirling brush technique that somehow seemed to make the painting swim. How was that possible? He stared at it, lost, and barely noticed as the crowd eddied around him and he was forced slowly to the back.

How?

He'd never told anyone about the dream. Did the Outsider, whomever they were, have the same dream as him somehow?

The room felt suddenly airless; without waiting for Callista or Cecelia, Corvo staggered out into the hallway and braced himself on his knees, breathing deep.

"Does it impress you?" said a voice from behind him. Corvo jumped, and turned to face the speaker.

The man was young, with pale skin and dark hair. He leaned casually against a pillar, fine features set in a mask of indifference.

"I…" Corvo took a deep breath. "I suppose you could say that." Truthfully he didn't know quite how he felt; dizzy, maybe. The man looked at him and Corvo had the uncomfortable feeling of being stared through.

"The people in this room recognize something greater than themselves, but none of them will truly understand it. Not like you do, …"

"Corvo." He found himself supplying his name almost automatically.

"Corvo," the man repeated slowly, as if testing it out.

"What do you mean by – what makes you think I understand?" Corvo was fairly certain that whatever feelings the painting had provoked inside him, understanding was not one of them. The man tilted his head.

"I always recognize people who understand my paintings," he said simply. There was a beat of silence as the full implication of what he said dawned on Corvo. Or rather, dropped on him like the proverbial ton of bricks.

"You're—" Corvo cleared his throat, which suddenly felt dry. "You're the Outsider."

"My dear Corvo," he said, and for a split second Corvo heard those words like they were echoing down a long hallway. Layered. He blinked and the feeling was gone. The man – the Outsider – smiled a smile that was impossibly inviting, somehow reminded Corvo of teeth without showing any. It made him inexplicably nervous.

"Who else would I be?"

how many water metaphors can I fit into my prose? all of them.