They were late.

Thomas resisted the urge to tip his head upwards, to once more survey the baleful moon that hung low in the sky over Dunwall. Sure, it looked breathtaking, but that was the last thing he needed right now. Distractions would only make the business at hand even riskier.

If only he hadn't been a virtuous fool.

Thomas had come to the city three years ago, from Morley. In that time, he'd carved out a nice little niche as a man who got things done. The same talents that had served him in the villages and moors of his homeland were doing him a world of good here, on the cobblestone streets of the city. A man needed to eat, drink and sleep, after all. So in between doing those things, he found himself taking on contracts. Mostly gangs who were too chickenshit or too incompetent to get something for themselves. But occasionally a shady noble of one kind or another wanted petty revenge on someone else, and they paid extremely well. So he'd prospered for a time.

Unfortunately in this last run, he'd come down with a bad case of conscience. The barrels behind him on the cart had been heavy, but they'd been even heavier weighing down on his mind. From the start, he'd known this contract to be bad news. He should have just pulled out and found a few aristocrats with big grudges and big bank accounts.

Well, he was here now, and wishing wasn't going to change that. He'd just have to keep his wits about him and pray that the boys from Bottle Street were as dumb as they looked.

Speaking of which, a brawny man in a tweed overcoat swaggered around a lamppost about twenty metres away and leaned against it, attempting nonchalance and failing miserably. "Evening, stranger, "he drawled. "Cold night for a-"

"Just go tell your boss the exchange is ready, "Thomas said, tersely cutting him off. He was in no mood for their shit. His hackles were already raised, and the shortsword strapped to his hip felt entirely too far away for his liking. He would rather have it in his hand.

Throwing him a glare, the man turned back around the corner. Muffled speaking ensued, one voice high and complaining, the other low and even. When the former started rising to a crescendo, the latter cut him off a harsh snarling sound that a wolfhound would have balked at. Thomas blanched. So he would be dealing with him tonight. Just wonderful.

Five men came out of the darkness, burly specimens who looked like they dined on nothing but whale blubber and dark wine. With the exception of their front man, who'd been verbally slapped by Thomas, all were sporting ugly grins on uglier faces. But they were Outsider-damned milkmaid beauties compared to their leader.

A nasty rash covered one side of his face, the skin unhealthy and peeling away. The other was dark and mottled from a burn scar, and gave his right eye a perpetually rabid look. It swivelled in the harsh lamplight to look at him. Thomas fought back a derisive snort: didn't these cretins realise that if they kept trying to put fire in things, they'd get burned? And that ain't a damned euphemism, either.

Ben the Brand folded his arms and pursed his chapped lips. "Thomas. A pleasure as always." His vocal cords had been damaged after all the screaming he'd done when the accident happened, and what had once been a gravelly bass tone was now a sibilant hiss. It sounded like he was keeping a snake in his throat. He keeps plenty of snakes about him, too. All of them looked pretty fucking eager for violence.

But that wasn't his way, so Thomas nodded tightly. "Pleasure." He stepped to one side, ignored the way the Bottle Street boys all reached for their cudgels and waved at his ill-gotten gains. "Here it is, as agreed. Give me my fee and we can all get out of the cold."

It was cold: the bitter wind snuck in through the seams of his old coat and raised goosebumps. But it was colder in the eyes of the Brand, who smiled thinly. "This all of it, then?"

Somewhere, in a small cellar below an artist's studio owned by a painter who owed Thomas a favour, the answer lay. Thomas answered with a straight face. "Yes. All of it."

"Uh-huh." The Brand walked forward, until he was barely ten metres away from Thomas. "You met Vennick, didn't you?"

Their mutual contact. "Yeah. Maybe."

"You did." There was no doubt in the Brand's voice. He stated it like a fact. "'Cause he said there were eight barrels in the Atherton estate. I count five."

Thomas shrugged indifferently. "Not from what I saw. I saw five, I got five. I can't take what's not there, Brand." He leaned against the cart, but kept his hand on the shortsword.

The Brand just stood there, looked at him with a cocked head. Almost sadly. Then he murmured, "You're not making this easy, Thomas. I thought we could trust one another."

"Which would explain why you brought your back-up, "Thomas said sardonically. "Now are we done pussyfooting around in this reek or can you give me my damned money and we call it quits?"

There was no warning as the Brand roared with anger and surged towards him. The man was like a damned mountain. Thomas drew his sword with a single fluid movement and swung. The tip carved a bloody ripple along the Brand's muscular forearm, and he reeled back with a squeal. His voice, now a high falsetto, whined at him. "You little fuck-"

The Bottle Street boys weren't idle. Yelling and cursing, they came at him.

With a savage shove, Thomas unlatched the back of the cart. The wine barrels went careering towards the oncoming gang members. One smashed soundly into a man's ankle and sent him to the cobbles screeching. Another tripped a man up, and when he got up again three of his teeth were missing. The charge slowed as the boys found the narrow street filled with rolling oak.

And in a matter of seconds, Thomas was upon them.

The front man made an undisciplined swing with his cudgel, and was promptly skewered by Thomas. "Idiot, "he muttered, as the man expired noisily and toppled off the blade. Pivoting to the right, he dodged a boot but struck his head on the concrete wall. Pain flared, stunning him. He stumbled away to one side, and was sent sprawling to the ground as another man tackled him.

Spitting and snarling like a mad animal, he smelled the faint whiff of cheap aftershave and dock water as a fist slammed into his cheek. He felt something break, but kept his mind in a cold state. Realising his shortsword wasn't in his hand anymore, he grabbed the dagger he kept in his belt lining and shoved it between the man's ribs. He gagged, and rolled off Thomas.

Thomas made to jump up, to keep fighting, but then a shadow fell over him and he groggily the man with a broken ankle pointing a crossbow at his face. "Try it, you hagfish, "the man breathed, pain filling every syllable. "Just try it."

Thomas did not. He heard the Brand growl, "Get the bastard on his feet."

Rough hands grabbed him and shoved him upwards. Blearily, he wondered when the last time was he'd gotten a roll with someone. The Golden Cat? He'd pretended to be some rich young duellist, and had spent a few pleasurable hours with a young fellow named Sebastian before the madame had ejected him. Well, that was probably the last time he'd get laid. Judging from the way things were going. He'd killed two, but the Brand was still alive, and two of his cronies. Thomas was good, but not that good.

The Brand stood before him, nursing his bleeding arm, and spat in his face. Thomas felt the creamy saliva work its way down his face, and twitched. "This isn't my day."

Hissing furiously, the Brand seized his head and twisted it viciously to one side. "You try to steal from us? You try to fuck us over? You won't have any more days again after this, "he whispered loathingly in Thomas' ear. "We're giving your carcass to the river krusts. When you see the Outsider, tell him this." A knife point under his chin, pricking open the skin. "Don't fuck with the Bottle Street-"

There was a sound, halfway between the whoosh of a candle flame being extinguished and the noise fabric made when it was torn. He must have been hallucinating, because he thought he saw ribbons of black air manifest from the air into the shape of a-

A man in a red coat stepped behind the Brand and neatly slit his throat with a heavy blade. Gurgling, the ganger dropped to the ground and sprawled at Thomas' feet. The man gave Thomas a toothy smile. "Gang. I'm guessing."

The last two members of the Brand's little posse shouted in shock, then rage. One made to stab the man in the chest, but he whipped up his arm and a green dart fired from his wrist. It embedded itself in the man's cheek, and after a few seconds of turning the colour of a hagfish, he fell to the ground, making carking noises.

Yelping, the last member ran into the dark at the end of the street. Thomas made to go after him, but the man in the red coat held up a hand. "Wait. Listen."

Right on cue, the terrified shrieks of the last Bottle Street boy filled the air, bouncing off the narrow walls. The sound of a blade plunging into something soft, and a final, wheezing sigh.

Thomas swung to look at the man in the coat. Now that he wasn't on the verge of getting killed, he took a moment to size him up. A craggy face, with some nasty scars. Serkonan, he would guess, from the shape of his nose and mouth. Handsome, too. Stifling that line of thought, he bowed low. "Thank you, stranger." Talking made his mouth hurt, and he grimaced. "Bastards almost got me. I'm Thomas."

The man shrugged. "We were passing by. Thought you could use the help." He reached down, and pressed the shortsword back into Thomas' hand. "You'd want something better than that."

"Yeah. I was planning on it." Thomas looked down at the bodies, and sighed. "There goes my commission."

His saviour shrugged again. "You walked away from it. I'd say you won."

Thomas was about to argue that point, something about how rushing in to save unwary smugglers probably didn't pay all that well, when he heard movement and turned. The man in the coat held up a hand. "It's fine."

Another man in a red coat swaggered towards them. Thomas was unable to see her face. He was wearing one of the masks that the whalers used to protect their faces from the fumes and such. He frowned. "Who are you two?"

"Daud." The man gestured to the new arrival. "This is Billie."

"Lurk, "the second man piped, and unloosened the ties that held the mask in place. Thomas was shocked to see a woman, not a man, underneath that visage. Her dark skin shone in the lamplight, and she gazed at him flatly. "It's Billie Lurk."

"Billie Lurk. My second in command. And protégé."

"But…" Thomas had a whirlwind of questions that needed answering. This night couldn't possibly get any stranger. "I've never seen you two before. Which gang are you part of?"

"We're not."

"Then…do you work for the Abbey?"

The one called Billie Lurk laughed, and Daud threw her a glare. When she'd stopped, he shook his head and said, "We've come from different places. We're looking to survive this city. Maybe right a few wrongs while we're here. It depends on who takes us on."

Something told Thomas that Daud was unaccustomed to speaking, and that it had remarkable for him to share this much. Thomas nodded, long and slow. Thought about it. Thought about how he'd been running ragged for months, forced to do business with backstabbing crooks like the Bottle Street gang and the Hatters. How he'd finally let conscience get the best of him.

Daud and Billie were killers. But so was he. Plus, they'd saved his life. He owed them that at least.

So he squared himself up to Daud, and asked, "Mind if I come along? You two interest me. Also…" He hesitated, then pushed through. "I've never seen anyone do that before." Appearing from nowhere, tatters of black air…

Daud's mouth twitched. "Few have. But I know someone very special. And if you stay with us, you might share in his…" Another grimace. "Gift. It's not for everyone."

Thomas shrugged. "It might be for me. As long as you don't try to kill me."

Daud tilted his head. "Let's talk about it first. Come with us. It's not far."

"One moment." Thomas strode past, and one by one rolled the barrels into a small alleyway. Locating a discarded tarp, he covered them over. Daud watched him. "Why did you screw the Brand over?"

Thomas straightened, looked Daud in the eye. "The wine in those barrels were made by slaves of the Atherton family. They get paid shit. I was hoping to return them to the workers in their vineyards. Give them something to trade with."
Daud nodded. "Sounds…virtuous."

Thomas nodded sheepishly. "And foolish."

"Not so foolish." Daud beckoned to him, and the three made their way down the alleyway. "You may just fit right in."

"How's that?"

Daud side-eyed him, and rubbed the back of his left hand absently. "You're interesting."