The bathtub was frighteningly small.
It was more of a basin than anything else, in Soap's opinion. He slid into the tub until his chin touched the water, his knees exposed to the cool air as they protruded from the water's surface. Goosebumps rose along his skin and he shuddered, trying to pull his knees back into the tub as far as they could go. In the end, Soap gave up, leaning his legs against the side of the tub and staring at the wall.
Piero had finished cleaning the blood and grime off Soap's chest and face, revealing only a few bruises and minor cuts that had long scabbed over. He had been given a shirt made of blue cotton that had a high collar and shoulders that were far too broad—it once belonged to Havelock, Soap assumed—and a bath had been drawn for him by one of the servants that minded the pub. Earlier Soap had put all of his effort into scrubbing himself clean with a washcloth and a bar of plain soap his hosts had provided; now he sat, concentrating less on cleaning himself and more on trying to ease the cold from his stiff limbs. He could feel his strength slowly returning; his body still ached and parts of him still protested if he twisted or bent too far, but most of the pain had finally dulled and continued to dull with each minute Soap rested.
The Admiral had introduced himself; "Admiral Havelock," he'd said, his introduction punctuated with a curt nod. He explained his role as the head of the Loyalist Conspiracy, which was started not long after the assassination of Empress Kaldwin and his own expulsion from the Imperial Navy—an expulsion he gave no details of, beyond a vague referral to his refusal to serve under the Lord Regent's banner. This pub, owned by Havelock himself, was the base of operations; there were contacts spread throughout the city, but the Hound Pits Pub, located within the quarantined Old Port District, housed the Conspiracy's most important members.
According to Havelock, the turmoil that now gripped the city had been sparked by a plague that had hit two years prior. It had quickly spiraled out of control, burning through Dunwall's lower class and claiming around a third of the city's population by the time of the Empress' assassination. The death of the Empress and the kidnapping of her daughter had pushed things even further and had the city teetering on the edge, and at this point the Lord Regent—who Havelock referred to as a "usurper"—was barely holding everything together.
Corvo had also introduced himself; Corvo Attano, former Lord Protector to the late Empress and her missing daughter. Corvo was there on the day that the Empress was assassinated; in fact, he was the one blamed for the crime. He insisted that he'd been framed, and that the Lord Regent—who had once served the Empress as her Royal Spymaster—was behind her death and the kidnapping of her daughter, and Corvo had taken the fall.
"I had guarded the Empress since she was but a young girl," Corvo had murmured solemnly when he saw the faintest shadow of doubt cross Soap's face, "And I guarded her daughter from birth. You tell me what kind of man would turn a blade on those who he loved and cared after for so long."
Soap recalled how Corvo then went on to explain his purpose within the Conspiracy; he was to serve as their assassin, killing targets where political maneuvers alone would fail. He was freed from prison by the Loyalists in exchange for his sword arm, and in return, the Loyalists had promised to clear his name and restore his position as Lord Protector.
Corvo's position wasn't lost on Soap. Whereas hiring a blade would be costly in the long run and could put the Loyalists in danger of betrayal, having Corvo broken out of prison would provide the Conspiracy an assassin who was wholly dependent on them for food, shelter, and safety. If the Loyalists weren't satisfied with his service, if he showed anything less than unwavering loyalty, it could put Corvo's freedom—his very life—at risk. That wasn't considering Corvo's relationship to the royal family, and the advantages—and complications—that could bring.
Soap sank further into the lukewarm bath, propping his legs up on the end of the bathtub and crossing his ankles. He didn't like this. He had just been thrown into a world completely unfamiliar to him, a world gripped by plague and political turmoil. He was essentially the prisoner of a conspiracy with no means to flee, no place to flee to, and no way to survive on his own. Despite how hospitable these Loyalists were, despite how they fed him and clothed him, despite how they sheltered him and treated him like their guest, the fact of the matter was that for as long as Soap was here, he didn't have any freedom, not truly.
He was nameless and penniless—he was useless—and completely at the mercy of the Loyalist Conspiracy.
How Soap even got here in the first place was lost on him. There were two possibilities: either Piero was right and he'd fallen through some rift in space-time caused by God-knows-what and wound up in a completely different universe, or—and this was infinitely more likely—he'd simply slipped into a coma on that table in Prague, and this was all some wildly vivid coma dream. Soap hoped he would wake up soon and find himself in a safehouse somewhere so he could forget about Dunwall and the Loyalists and start worrying about his own problems again.
But what if you don't wake up?
Soap gripped the side of the tub, his nails digging into the wood for a few moments before he forced himself to relax. If Piero was right, if Soap really did fall through some breach in the space-time continuum, then getting home wouldn't be as simple as waking up. The mistake would have to correct itself somehow. Soap would have to pass through another rift, and he had no idea how he'd managed to pass through the first one. Soap didn't even know how to find one, let alone cause one himself and just jump back into his own timeline. That was impossible. The odds of something like that happening were so infinitely small that, if Soap was brought here by a rift in space-time, he had next to no chance of ever returning home without one hell of a lucky streak.
No. Don't think about that. Soap closed his eyes, tapping his fingers against the side of the tub. No matter how he got here, it was out of Soap's hands now. He couldn't force himself to wake up from a coma, and he sure as hell couldn't just rip open the fabric of space-time and jump right through into his own plane of reality. His responsibilities at home would have to wait.
A shudder ran up Soap's spine as he was suddenly aware of how much cooler the water had become. He took this as his cue to get out, pulling his legs back in the tub and rising slowly to his feet. Goosebumps rose on his skin as he met the cooler air and with a shiver, Soap stepped out and grabbed a towel that had been left for him on the sink, wrapping it around his shoulders and standing there for a few moments before drying himself off, rushing to warm himself up.
Soap stepped in front of the mirror, rubbing the towel on his hair before wrapping it around his waist and taking a good look at himself. His face and chest were bruised, the already-yellowing bruises mottling his warm brown skin. Soap reached up and gingerly poked at his ribs, wincing at the tenderness; they still hurt, but Piero had been right in that there was no break.
I know what I felt. I broke them on that fall.
Soap turned his attention to the scar on his stomach. It was an ugly thing, an angry knot of flesh just the width of the blade that had once been buried there. Shepherd's doing. As ugly as the scar was now, the memory of the fresh wound left behind from a knife buried to the hilt in his stomach was even uglier. Soap's survival was against all odds, and it took him more than a month of recovery before Price allowed him to take up a gun again. The time between mercenary jobs that paid for their weapons and supplies had been spent nursing Soap back to full health, and even then, he had to exercise extreme caution.
Soap gently brushed his fingers against the scar. It felt and looked the same as it did before what happened in Prague, and yet there was no doubt in his mind that it had reopened. The way he was bleeding, the blood pouring from him and soaking through his clothes, leaving a trail of red behind him…Soap shouldn't have survived that. And yet, the angry knot of scarred flesh hadn't changed, as if Prague had never happened.
Soap looked up in the mirror, drops of water trickling down his face from his still-wet mohawk.
What the hell happened to me?
"You're out. Good."
The voice spoke as soon as Soap stepped through the doorway, his head as he searched for its source. Corvo was leaning against the wall directly beside the doorway, his arms folded loosely across his chest with a can of something in one hand. He tilted his head when Soap met his cool gaze.
"Enjoy your bath?" he asked, pushing away from the wall and standing straight.
Soap shrugged and folded back the sleeves of his borrowed shirt. "It was fine," he responded, noticing the way Corvo's lip twitched before his face slipped into a cool mask. He held the can in his hand out towards Soap, waving it at him expectantly when Soap didn't immediately take it.
"I recall you saying that you wanted to be fed," Corvo said, seeming pleased when Soap took the can from his hands and turned it over in his own. Now that Soap could look at it, it was more of a tin rather than a can, and it was unmarked. "This is all I can give you until dinner."
"Thanks," Soap mumbled as he fingered the tab on the tin, unsure of whether he should open it and eat now or later. "Shouldn't we drain the bath or something—"
"I'll get one of the servants to do that," Corvo interrupted, stepping past Soap and clasping his hands behind his back. "Come," he said, and without another word he strode for the door on the other end of the room.
Soap hesitated, staring after Corvo before taking a moment to look around the room he'd stepped in. Judging by the bunk beds, which were separated from the bathroom by some curtains supported by rods fixed to two pillars, Soap assumed that this was the servant's quarters; there were a decent number of beds, even though the only servant Soap had seen was Cecelia. She was the one who had drawn Soap's bath per the Admiral's order; she'd completed her task and vanished before Soap had a chance to properly introduce himself.
"Are you coming?" Corvo's voice rang out, interrupting Soap's train of thought. Soap grunted and walked after Corvo, who stood waiting for him in the threshold.
"You gonna show me around or something?" Soap asked once he was closer, still turning the unmarked tin over in his hands, not really paying much attention to it. Corvo shook his head, gesturing towards the hall with one hand before stepping past the threshold into the hall.
"That will come later," he replied. "For now, I'd like to talk. Somewhere more private."
Soap hummed in acknowledgement, falling behind and letting Corvo lead him down the hall. They barely made it a few steps before a door further down the hall creaked open and someone Soap hadn't met stepped through, spinning on his heel and closing the door softly behind him. He was an older gentleman, around Soap's height and perhaps a little less broad in the shoulders, with greying brown hair and a drawn expression on his craggy features. The grey-brown jacket he wore was a bit long on him, but it was neat and clean, just like the rest of him. He started to turn when he heard footsteps, opening his mouth to speak.
"Master Corvo," the man began, rubbing at his face. "If you're looking for Lord Pendleton, I'm afraid he's not to be disturbed. He has been complaining of a head—" The man dropped his hand and promptly fell silent when he saw Soap behind Corvo, the two men stopping just a meter or so away from where he stood. He blinked owlishly at Soap before muttering, "A headache…" under his breath, his voice laced with uncertainty.
"Wallace, this is John MacTavish," Corvo stated without hesitation, waving his hand in Soap's general direction. Soap folded his arms across his chest, tapping the tin of whatever against his upper arm as he nodded curtly at Wallace. Brows furrowed, he nodded back. "He will be staying with us from now on."
"Who brought him here?" Wallace questioned. "The Admiral?"
"Dumb luck is more like it," Soap grumbled. Corvo scoffed and turned his head to smirk at Corvo, one brow raised. "The Admiral just let me stay." Like Corvo, Wallace raised a brow as well, although he looked significantly less impressed.
"Never mind that, then. I'm Wallace Higgins, manservant to Lord Pendleton," Wallace stated, dipping his head shallowly at Soap. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must fetch some water for—"
"Could you drain the bath for me, please?" Corvo interrupted. "Once you're done tending to Lord Pendleton, of course."
Wallace sighed. "It will be done, Master Corvo," he replied, bowing shallowly before turning and leaving, walking down the hall in the opposite direction of the servant's quarters. Once he disappeared in the stairwell, Corvo turned to face Soap, tilting his head.
"Shall we go, then?" Corvo asked, nodding in the direction that Wallace had gone. Soap nodded and, satisfied, Corvo turned and led the way to the stairwell.
"You know, most people smoke after they eat."
Soap huffed, a cigarette gripped between his lips as he dug through the pockets of his jacket, searching for his lighter. Finding it, Soap pulled the lighter from his pocket and held it up to the end of his cigarette, sparking a flame. He inhaled as much of the bitter smoke as he could as he stuffed the lighter back into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the tin that Corvo had given him earlier. Soap pulled the cigarette from his lips, turning and exhaling a cloud of grey smoke.
"And?"
Corvo had taken Soap to the roof of the Hound Pits Pub, leading him through the attic where Corvo quartered. Soap's belongings had been relocated there per Corvo's request, and now Soap's jacket was draped over his shoulders, shielding him from a cold breeze that bit at his exposed skin and chilled him through the thin cotton of his shirt, carrying in the stench of the river. Sunset had given way to twilight, and now the murky river, visible from the roof of the pub, reflected the last dying rays of sunlight.
Corvo stepped beside Soap, leaning against the railing that separated the two men from a three-story drop. He peered at Soap as he continued to take deep drags from the cigarette, sucking down smoke as though his life depended on it. "I figured you would've been hungry enough to eat what I'd given you first," Corvo said, nodding at the cigarette between Soap's fingers.
"Whatever, I needed a smoke," Soap muttered, taking a deep inhale of smoke and wincing as a brief flash of pain shot through his chest. "I'll eat it when I'm done. What did you even give me?"
"Fish. I thought it would hold you until dinner."
"Oh, good," Soap scoffed, tapping ashes from his cigarette as he let out another cloud of smoke. Corvo raised a brow, cocking his head to one side.
"Do you not like fish, MacTavish?" he asked.
"Kind of. Not exactly partial to the canned variety."
Corvo huffed. "You'll have a hard time in Dunwall if that's the case."
Soap grunted in acknowledgement, raising the cigarette to his lips. Corvo fell silent, turning and looking out at the river, Soap doing the same. The river ran through the middle of the city, reflecting the scant light that started to glitter throughout the city's buildings. Dunwall wasn't as bright as modern cities, far from it; other than the lights that illuminated the windows of the visible buildings, the skyline was a shadow against the darkening sky. It would be a very long time before Dunwall was as brightly lit as any of the cities back home.
"Do you see that building?" Corvo asked, breaking the silence as he pointed at a massive structure on the other side of the river. "The tall one." Soap leaned forward, gripping the railing with one hand as he tried to get a better look. The building Corvo pointed out faced the river and was made of white stone, and in the darkness, it blended in with the rest of the skyline despite standing so close to the river; it wasn't as brightly lit as the other buildings. Beside it was another building, made of the same white stone and facing the first building. It was shorter than the first building, but still large in its own right; Soap figured that both structures would be a sight to see up close.
"Aye." Soap exhaled another cloud of smoke and tapped more ashes from his cigarette.
"That's Dunwall Tower," Corvo explained, standing a bit straighter with both hands on the railing. "The seat of the Empire. I lived there with the Kaldwins for over twenty years. It was there that I guarded Empress Jessamine and, later, her daughter, Emily."
"Yeah?" Soap murmured, twirling the cigarette in his fingers. It was burning dangerously low already; he was tempted to light another, but Soap wasn't sure when he'd get his hands on another pack of cigarettes again. He took a short drag from what he had left, studying the tower that stood across the river.
"The Lord Regent resides there now," Corvo continued bitterly, reaching up and tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear. "From what I'm told, he's closed down the Tower to public traffic and rarely leaves outside of official business. He's most likely in there right now." With a huff and a lopsided smirk, Corvo added, "He could be looking at us through one of those windows right now."
"You lot are conspiring against him right under his nose and he doesn't know a thing," Soap commented, glancing down at his cigarette again. He took one last drag from it before he dropped it to the ground and crushed it beneath his heel.
"Precisely." Corvo turned around and leaned back against the railing, watching as Soap dug around in his pocket for the tin of fish he'd been given. "And if all goes according to plan, soon he'll never set foot in that tower again."
Soap pulled the tin of fish out of his pocket and fiddled with the tab a little bit more before finally pulling it back. He wrinkled his nose as a powerful smell hit him, the stench of the fish almost overwhelming.
"Uh...what kind of fish did you say this was?"
Corvo's lips twitched into what looked like a smirk. "Hagfish," he responded, Soap shooting him a bewildered look. "Common around these parts, very much so. You can't set foot into the river without your toes getting nibbled on by one of those creatures." He sniffed "Or bitten off, depending on how big of a fish it is."
"I hate to tell you this, mate, but this isn't hagfish." Soap plucked a chunk of fish from the tin, making a disgusted noise at the slimy liquid it was marinating in. "Are you sure this is eel and not…slop?"
"What are you talking about? Hagfish aren't eels at all."
"Well, what are they, then?"
Corvo furrowed his brow, thinking. "They're just normal fish. With teeth. Are you trying to tell me that, where you come from…?"
"They're eels? Yes." Soap rubbed the chunk of fish between his fingers, apprehensive about putting it in his mouth. "At least, that's what I think they are. And they're not exactly a delicacy where I come from." Soap sniffed the chunk of fish held between his fingers and grimaced. "Not that this is any kind of delicacy, either."
"Trust me, it's much better fried," Corvo assured him, and his voice shook with a suppressed chuckle at Soap's face. "If you're not going to eat it, though, just give it here."
"Let me try it first."
"Suit yourself."
Soap stared at the fish for a few moments longer, hesitating before giving in and putting it in his mouth. Because of the brine it had a slimy texture, and was a bit too salty, but other than that the fish itself wasn't too terrible. He chewed slowly, staring down at the contents of the tin in his hand, feeling Corvo's eyes on him as he tried to decide whether he liked it.
"How is it?" Corvo asked.
"...It's alright."
Corvo huffed in acknowledgement and Soap ate another piece of fish, the two men standing in silence for a while. A cold breeze swept across the roof and Soap shivered, frowning down at his food. Corvo looked over his shoulder, out at the river, reaching up and tucking his hair away from his face.
"So, MacTavish." Corvo cast a sideways glance in Soap's direction as Soap looked up at him, raising his brow as his name was called. "How are you liking here so far at the Hound Pits?"
"Other than almost getting shot? It's fine," Soap mumbled, earning another low scoff from the man beside him. "It's quiet."
"Yes, well, that's what quarantine zones tend to be. Quiet." Corvo stood up straight again, turning to face Soap fully. "Forgive us for...earlier," he said, crossing his arms. "You must understand—"
"Yeah, yeah, conspiracy and safety and all that, I know," Soap replied dismissively, shrugging his shoulders as he popped another chunk of fish in his mouth. He was slowly getting used to the saltiness and the texture, and now he was properly digging in, his hunger taking over. "I get it."
"Good."
Soap huffed. "You said this place was quarantined because of plague. Aren't you worried about disease?"
"Why would we be? So long as we take caution, limit interaction with outsiders, avoid the rats, and take elixir as often as we can, we should be fine," Corvo replied. "Not that we interact with outsiders to begin with. Anyone that the Admiral and the others have connections with communicate entirely through correspondence, and other than the servants who deliver said correspondence, there are no visitors, as you can imagine. A good portion of our funds go towards the elixir that Piero himself brews to fight off the plague, as well as purchased elixir from the black market, and, well...any rats that we see get exterminated." Corvo shrugged. "And besides, anybody with plague in this district is either dead or too far away to do any harm to us."
"And if they come closer? If someone here somehow gets infected?"
Corvo's cool expression didn't change. "We kill them."
Christ. Soap simply nodded and looked back down at his fish. The tin was almost empty, and as Soap poked around for one of the bigger pieces that were left, Corvo continued.
"Hopefully it won't come to that. We take every precaution necessary. Which reminds me, we need to get you some elixir as well."
"Yeah." Soap paused for a moment, then looked back up. "What happens when you get sick? With the plague, I mean."
Corvo pursed his lips turning and leaning against the railing again. "I haven't seen the plague firsthand, but from what I hear, it's a slow process," he began. Soap nodded and looked back down at his fish, poking around for more pieces. "First the coughing sets in, then the fever. You get chills and heat flashes and cold sweats, and then the nausea comes and it gets hard to keep anything down. Then comes the sores. Victims are often bedridden. If it doesn't kill you and if doesn't go away in its early stages—which it only does if you're lucky—it progressively gets worse and worse until you start bleeding from the eyes."
A shock passed through Soap and he almost dropped the tin of fish as he whirled around to face Corvo. "I'm sorry, I thought you just said people start bleeding from the eyes."
"I did," Corvo continued, "And they keep bleeding from the eyes—and from other orifices, I hear—until death takes them, one way or another. Some people are lucky and die of fever before it ever comes to that, but many aren't. When they get to that point, I hear, people call them weepers, and they can linger for days or even weeks before they finally die."
"What kind of hemorrhaging lets someone stay alive for weeks before they finally die?" Corvo shrugged. "I'm no doctor, don't go asking me," he replied. "I'm just telling you what I've heard."
"And there's no cure?"
"None. The only defense we have are elixirs and quarantine."
"Christ." Soap looked back down at his fish, his appetite suddenly gone. Images of people vomiting up blood and bleeding from the eyes flickered through his mind, and as Soap remembered those hours of wandering through this quarantined district touched by plague with nothing but a bath in a wooden basin to clean him afterwards, his stomach lurched.
"I think," Soap muttered, slowly peeling down the cover of the tin of fish as much as he could, "I'd like to see Piero and get some of that elixir now."
"Of course." Corvo cast a glance out at the river, then at the sky. "It's getting dark, anyway. Come. Dinner should be ready soon."
The wait for dinner went on uneventfully, Soap staying close to Corvo as the two men were otherwise left to their own devices. Soap got the dose of elixir that he wanted, some blue liquid that was horribly sweet and hard to choke down, and after a brief tour of the building Soap decided to stick close to Corvo. The two men spent most of their time in the attic as they waited for dinner, conversing between each other when the awkward silence between them was unbearable. Once Havelock came upstairs on his way to the roof for a smoke, giving nothing but a short, gruff greeting as he passed; he seemed uninterested in stopping for a chat, which Soap was just fine with.
Corvo explained the new world Soap had found himself thrust into, telling him about the Empire and the four Isles—Gristol, Tyvia, Serkonos, and Morley—that it was made up of, along with a brief account of its history. He explained how Dunwall, the capital of Gristol, was the seat of the Empire, and summarized the forming of the Empire that had taken place over two hundred years prior; he told Soap about the War of Four Crowns, which led to a united Empire of the Isles. A constitution was written, a Parliament formed, and the throne was based in Gristol with a Gristian man crowned as the first Emperor.
Corvo also gave a brief description of the workings of the Empire's government; each Isle governed themselves to an extent, but they all answered to the Emperor or Empress—or, as it was currently, the Lord Regent. Outside of rare cases where there was no Emperor or Empress or power changed hands between families, the role of Emperor or Empress was passed down through the ruling family's bloodline; as it was, the Lord Regent was ruling in place of the next Kaldwin in line for the throne. The Kaldwin Dynasty had started with Emperor Euhorn Kaldwin, then passed along to Jessamine Kaldwin after his death; Emily Kaldwin was next in line for the throne—if she could be found.
The Kaldwin Dynasty began following the end of the Morley Insurrection, a two-year war that was the result of a violent Morlish uprising. While the uprising was crushed, resulting in Morley under tighter Gristian control, there was still a strong sentiment of independence among the Morlish; Corvo explained that, because the Insurrection was still in living memory, it was likely that anti-Imperial sentiments contributed to Morley's refusal to offer Dunwall aid during the onset of the Plague.
Corvo then went on to explain Gristol's Parliament; it was strikingly similar to the UK's, Soap realized, with a system of checks and balances in place to ensure neither the Emperor or Empress nor the Prime Minister had too much power.
It wasn't too long until dinner was finally called and one of the servants—an older brown-haired woman—came up to the attic to fetch Soap and Corvo. She quietly led them down to the taproom where they were each given a modest portion of some sort of fried meat stew and, once again, were left to their own devices, allowed to sit wherever they pleased. Corvo waved Soap over to a booth on the far side of the taproom where they could eat largely undisturbed, watching the residents of the Hound Pits from where they sat.
The Admiral was there, eating his food at the bar and nursing a glass of something alcoholic, most likely beer, as he quietly minded his own business. Wallace was there as well; he was the one who'd served dinner, and, from what Soap gathered, cooked it as well. He wasn't a bad cook, given the rations; the meat, which Corvo kindly identified for him as whale meat, was good, and the carrots and potatoes and bits of onion that floated in the thin stew weren't that bad either. According to Corvo, this kind of dinner wasn't usual, as the conspiracy didn't have much money and usually had to rely on much more meager rations. Fruit and vegetables were hard to come by, and it was next to impossible to find meat like pork or beef readily available; fish or whale meat fried straight out of the can and served with bread and whiskey was much more commonplace here at the Hound Pits, as it was in the rest of the city among common folk.
Cecelia appeared briefly, as did Piero, the two of them coming in to take their dinner and scurrying off somewhere else to eat it. Wallace hadn't blinked at Piero's refusal to eat in the pub, but he'd given Cecelia a frustrated look and grumbled to himself as she took her ration and left.
"She's frightened of you," Corvo explained. "We aren't supposed to have any newcomers."
The servant that had fetched Soap and Corvo from the attic didn't take any food from the taproom; she'd already eaten, she explained, and as soon as Corvo and Soap arrived downstairs, she went off to her own business. Wallace left briefly to take a bowl of stew upstairs, probably up to whoever he'd been tending to earlier.
Corvo and Soap ate in silence for a good while, undisturbed by the others in the taproom, until the creak of an opening door caught Soap's attention. He looked up as someone he hadn't met strode in from the street-facing door, straightening his blue-grey jacket as he entered. He was probably around the Admiral's height, with dark brown hair and a blue-grey uniform that Soap couldn't identify. He walked in as though he was welcome, and judging by the way the Admiral looked up and greeted him, he was.
"Good evening, Admiral," the stranger greeted, waving with a hand gloved in black leather. "I see I came just in time for dinner."
"Come to mooch off us, hm?" the Admiral responded, straightening up over where he'd been hunched over his food. "I thought you were taking care of your own dinner for tonight."
"I changed my mind." The stranger strode up to the Admiral, heartily clapping him on the back and peering down at his food. "Stew for dinner, eh? I haven't had a good stew in months."
"Have Wallace get you some when he comes back downstairs, then," Havelock said, waving the stranger away. The stranger stepped back with a smirk, setting his hands on his hips as he watched Havelock go back to eating.
"Where's Corvo?" the stranger asked, and in response the Admiral just grunted and jerked his thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of the booth Soap and Corvo were sharing. He turned around, opening his mouth to greet Corvo and falling silent as his gaze fell on Soap, his brow furrowing in confusion. Soap glanced down and poked at a chunk of whale meat floating in the stew, trying not to look as though he'd been staring.
"Who's this?" the stranger questioned, looking back at the Admiral, one brow raised. "I thought no one else was joining us."
"Ask him yourself," Havelock grumbled, his voice muffled—his mouth was full, probably. "I'm eating."
Soap pursed his lips, trying not to frown too visibly down at his stew as he heard Corvo stifle a snicker. The stranger huffed, and then there was the sound of footsteps on the hardwood floor as he crossed the room, approaching Corvo and Soap's shared booth. Reluctantly, Soap looked up, swallowing what was in his mouth before moving to stand up.
"Oh, stay down, there's no need for that," the stranger said dismissively, waving his hand as he urged Soap to remain seated. Soap had no objection to that, settling back into the booth and watching out of the corner of his eye as Corvo continued to eat as though nothing was happening. "I'm Overseer Martin," the stranger introduced himself, extending his right hand. Soap took it in his own; Martin's grip was firm, giving a few brief shakes before releasing him. "You are?"
"John MacTavish," Soap responded. Martin blinked at his response; exactly what about it was surprising, Soap wasn't sure of.
"You're Morlish? What city are you from?" Martin asked, folding his arms across his chest. "You sound like you're from the north."
So that was what was so surprising to him.
"He's not from the Isles," Corvo interjected around a mouthful of food, not looking up from where he was shoveling stew into his mouth. Martin blinked, both brows raising as he gave Soap an expectant look.
"It's...a long story," Soap responded sheepishly. Martin's brow furrowed once more.
"I'll...have to hear it some other time, then," Martin said. "I'm only here to eat and get back to my apartment. I'm assuming it's that same long story that'll explain why you're here?"
"Yes," Soap and Corvo replied in unison, Soap shooting a curious look at Corvo, who still didn't look up from his food. Judging by his behavior it was safe to assume that Corvo just wanted this Martin figure out of his hair.
"I really don't know how to explain in short terms," Soap explained, the frown on Martin's face making his dissatisfaction with that answer clear. "The quickest way to explain it, I guess, is that I was wounded and somehow…brought here while I was unconscious. The Admiral took me in after some…confusion."
"You should've seen him, Martin," Havelock's voice called out from the bar, the Admiral looking over his shoulder with his glass in his hand. "Stumbled in here all covered in dirt and blood. If Corvo hadn't stopped me, I'd have just shot his ass dead. Looked like a damn weeper."
Martin sighed. "Have some respect, Havelock, the man's right here."
"He was right there when I was pointing a gun at him, what's your point?"
"Weren't you going to go eat, Martin?" Corvo grumbled, his lips almost touching the spoon dripping with broth. "Wallace should be downstairs in a moment."
Martin opened his mouth to respond when there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and shortly after Wallace entered the taproom once more, holding a now empty bowl as he walked back behind the bar. He nodded respectfully at Martin as he turned and looked, placing the bowl on the bar counter.
"Good evening, Martin," Wallace greeted gruffly. "Come for something to eat?"
"Yes, actually," Martin responded. "Get me a bowl of stew, would you? And some bread if you have any." He turned back to Soap and gave a short nod, muttering, "I'll talk to you later, yes?" before turning on his heel and walking up to the bar, settling down in a stool beside the Admiral as Wallace fetched him something to eat. Corvo let out a relieved sigh as Martin left, tension in his shoulders visibly lifting. Soap quietly went back to eating. He frowned to himself; the stew had gotten cold.
Soon dinner was over and Corvo and Soap lingered in the taproom for a short while, the two of them nursing glasses of whiskey and talking quietly as the night drew on. Martin ate and left, leaving the Admiral alone at the bar again with his whiskey and a cigarette, the grey smoke winding up to the ceiling. The older woman that Soap had seen earlier—Lydia, Soap had heard Wallace call her—was downstairs now, wiping down the counters as Wallace gathered up used bowls and glasses to wash. Soap looked up when the Admiral suddenly rose to his feet and wordlessly walked over to where he and Corvo sat, standing before them with his arms crossed firmly over his chest.
"If you're going to be staying with us, then sleeping arrangements will have to be made," the Admiral stated matter-of-factly. "All of the rooms in the pub are taken, except for a few beds in the servant's quarters."
Soap and Corvo exchanged a glance, and then Soap shrugged, looking back up at the Admiral. "That's fine, I guess," he responded. "I wouldn't mind sleeping in the servant's quar—"
"Absolutely not!" Wallace's voice rang out from the bar, much to the surprise of both Soap and the Admiral. He'd overheard them, apparently, and now he firmly placed the dishes he was holding back on the counter as he glared at the two men, his hands on his hips. "You are a guest, and will not be reduced to sleeping in the servant's quarters. "
"It's fine, I swear," Soap tried to assure him, but when Wallace's expression didn't waver, he added, "But if you're really that uncomfortable with me staying with you, I could always sleep in the attic with Corvo—" Soap paused, then frowned, shaking his head as Corvo gave him a blank look. He'd seen Corvo's bed up in the attic; it was tiny, barely enough room for Corvo himself. He wasn't about to try and share it with him. "I could always just sleep on the floor?"
Wallace sputtered, baffled at the proposition, before he could manage to spit out his reply. "Absolutely not! We will not have a guest sleep on the attic floor!"
"This isn't a hotel, man," Havelock put in, becoming visibly irritated. "It doesn't matter where he sleeps."
"We have the two beds in the tower," Corvo suggested, working out the cricks in his neck as he spoke. "One is reserved for Emily, and the other for Miss Curnow, but neither of them are here tonight; MacTavish could take one of those beds until they arrive?" Soap didn't dislike that idea; it wouldn't be a permanent arrangement, but at least he'd be sleeping in a bed.
Wallace huffed. "Perhaps," he grumbled. "But when Her Highness arrives and Miss Curnow returns? What then?"
"Look, I can just sleep on the floor when that time comes," Soap insisted, earning another glare from Wallace. "Trust me, I've slept in worse places."
"If it's necessary, then I, Lydia, and Cecelia can vacate our quarters—"
"Over my dead body!" Lydia spat from where she'd been wiping down the bar, throwing her rag on the counter and placing her hands on her hips. She glared daggers at Wallace, who returned the look with a surprised expression on his face. "Then where are we going to sleep? I don't work my ass off all day so that I can sleep on the damn floor!"
"Enough! " the Admiral bellowed, startling Wallace into silence. Lydia simply pursed her lips and looked expectantly at the Admiral; she was used to the Admiral raising his voice, it seemed. "This isn't that big of a deal, but since it matters so much to you lot, MacTavish will be staying in the attic. He and Corvo can figure out their sleeping arrangements from there." Havelock turned his gaze on Soap and Corvo, who stared blankly back at him. "Understand?"
"Aye."
"Yes, sir."
"Good." Havelock sighed and turned on his heel, marching back to the bar where his almost-empty glass of whiskey sat. "It's settled then. Lydia, come top this off for me, would you?
"You said you're fine with sleeping on the floor."
It was a statement, not a question. Soap shrugged as he and Corvo walked up the stairs side by side, heading up to the attic where they'd retire for the rest of the night. "It doesn't matter to me," he said, "just as long as I get some sleep."
"Good, because I'm not giving you my bed," Corvo stated. He walked in silence for a few moments, the footfalls of the two men causing the wooden staircase to creak terribly. "I have an extra pillow and blanket. You can use those, and if you want we can bring one of the unused mattresses upstairs from the servant's quarters."
Once in the attic, Soap and Corvo quietly went about getting ready for bed. Soap accepted the pillow and blanket given to him, and Corvo went back down to the servant's quarters to grab one of their unused mattresses. He brought it back up by himself—didn't want help, it seemed—and dropped it beside his own bed before disappearing again for a few minutes, giving Soap a chance to undress in privacy.
Soap kicked off his boots and dropped his jacket on the floor without ceremony, not bothering to take off his pants or the shirt given to him before lying down on the mattress on the floor. The mattress Corvo had brought him was lumpy and the blanket he'd been given was scratchy and did little to ward off the cold draft, but it was much better than nothing. Corvo reentered the room once Soap was settled and after shedding a few layers of clothes, leaving on only his pants and shirtsleeves, Corvo climbed into bed and huddled under his own blanket.
Sleep was a long time coming; every few minutes was marked by the sound of Corvo tossing and turning in his bed, his mattress creaking and groaning as if it were in pain. In a vain attempt to block out the noise and the moonlight coming in through the dirty windows, Soap pulled the blanket over his head and turned his face into his pillow. It smelled of dust, and Soap found himself unable to hold back a sneeze.
Shouting what sounded like a swear, Corvo shot upright, his mattress letting out a particularly loud creak as if protesting the sudden movement. Soap rolled onto his back and lowered the covers just enough to peer up at the bed where Corvo sat with his head in his hands, rubbing his eyes. In the moonlight, Soap could see Corvo's lips move as he muttered something to himself; from what he could hear, it sounded like Spanish, or something similar; he assumed that, whatever it was, it was Corvo's first language.
"Same here, mate," Soap mumbled. All he wanted to do right now was sleep, but it just wouldn't come. He heard Corvo heave a heavy, frustrated sigh.
"It's the same every damn night," Corvo grumbled, "And it doesn't help that you're here. Outsider's eyes, I swear you exist too loudly!"
"At least I can sit still for more than five damn seconds!" Soap shot back, shooting upright so that he could glare at his roommate. Corvo returned the look, his nose wrinkled and lip curled in an irritated sneer. "If you'd just relax, we'd get to sleep faster."
"I don't know about you, but I haven't been able to relax in seven months," Corvo growled spitefully, turning his gaze away. He said nothing else, glaring at the wall in silence.
Soap let out a sigh as he laid back down, pulling the blanket over himself and making it a point to turn away from Corvo. Part of him didn't blame Corvo for his frustration; trouble sleeping was something Soap himself was all to familiar with. The silence and the stillness of nighttime was when thoughts and memories repressed during the day tended to rear their ugly heads, and while the memories themselves were different, the symptoms were the same. Where Corvo no doubt thought of the Empress and her daughter, Soap thought of Gaz and Griggs, thought of Roach and Ghost's last moments heard over the radio. Where Corvo thought of prison, a subject which he'd made a point of avoiding in conversation, Soap thought of all the times he'd been near death. He thought of the bridge in the Altay Mountains, thought of Afghanistan and the knife lodged in his stomach.
Prague came to mind, and suddenly Soap decided he didn't want to do much more thinking.
"If we can't sleep," Soap found himself mumbling, rolling onto his back once more, "then we may as well talk. You know, until we bore each other into passing out."
Corvo grunted in response, shifting in his bed. Soap looked up and saw Corvo staring right back down at him, propped up on one elbow and blinking slowly. "What subject do you wish to bore me with, then?" he grumbled.
Soap paused. He still had some questions about this place and his hosts that had gone unanswered, and he wasn't about to talk about himself unprompted. "Where are you from?" he finally decided on asking, deciding that question was as good as any.
Corvo raised a brow. "Serkonos," he replied. "The southernmost Isle. I was born in the capital, Karnaca, and was raised there by my mother. I lived with her and my older sister until I won the Blade Verbena as a teenager and joined the Grand Serkonan Guard, and then came to Dunwall to serve the Emperor at Dunwall Tower. I was appointed Lord Protector two years later for Jessamine Kaldwin; she was just a child then."
"The Blade Verbena?"
"A yearly sword fighting tournament," Corvo explained. "The best swordsmen from across the Isles come to compete, though anyone is allowed to participate, no matter their background. It's...an occasion. A victory almost always ensures earning a junior officer rank in the Grand Guard at least, no matter who the victor is."
Soap stared blankly at Corvo. "And you won. As a sixteen-year-old."
Corvo shrugged. "I grew up poor, on the streets. I had no father and my mother worked days and nights, so most of the time it was me or my sister. It was either learn to fight or get stepped on by people bigger and stronger than me, and I chose to fight." Corvo reached up and rubbed his neck, sighing. "I got good at it."
"Good enough that you were sent to the capital of the Empire to be the bodyguard to a future Empress."
A small smile tugged on Corvo's lips. "Impressive, isn't it?"
"More than I can describe."
Corvo let out a small hum, running his hands through his hair. "Sixteen years old. Outsider's eyes, that was more than twenty years ago."
Soap furrowed his brow. "You keep mentioning that name. 'Outsider's eyes' this, 'Outsider's eyes' that. Piero mentioned him earlier, when he was talking about my, er, situation. Is he some kind of God or something?"
Corvo hummed again, frowning. "Yes? Or no. Not quite is a better answer. I'm not sure what he is myself, to be honest."
"Care to explain?" Soap pressed. Corvo twirled a lock of hair with his finger, thinking.
"The Outsider is this…being who appears as a young man and dwells within a realm called the Void," Corvo began, speaking slowly. "He's not quite a god, I think, but he's clearly not human. He's something...else. Some people worship him, but it's forbidden under the Abbey of the Everyman, and considered heresy."
"The Abbey of the Everyman?"
"The dominant religion of the Isles," Corvo continued. "I'm sure there are others, but not nearly as widespread. When the Empire was first formed, it gave the Abbey the chance to spread its influence far and wide; it crushed any and all outward opposition and continues to hunt down 'heresy.' Overseer Martin is a part of the Abbey—high-ranking, from what I hear—and his job and the job of the other Overseers is to preach the word of the Abbey and the Seven Strictures to the common people, and eradicate any heresy they can find."
Soap frowned. "So militant priests."
"I suppose. They teach that the Outsider is an evil being, some creature from beyond the veil who seeks to spread chaos in our realm."
"Is there a god of sorts that the Abbey preaches about?" Soap found himself asking.
Much to Soap's surprise, Corvo shook his head. "The only otherworldly being that exists is the Outsider," he replied. "The key to avoiding his influence, they say, is to resist his temptations, which are outlined in the Seven Strictures—which I am not going to recite now, so don't even think about asking. It's on each individual to resist the Outsider and save themselves, and if you don't...from what the Overseers say, you'll be lucky if they get to you first."
"Do you believe in any of that?" Soap questioned. He was brought up Roman Catholic by his mother and spent a good few years in Catholic school at her behest; while he had been insistent on shutting out whatever he could get away with as a child, Soap was all too familiar with the fear-mongering and control that his particular community had favored. Even then, he found it hard to imagine living under a religion that Corvo described; the idea of being raised to fear some kind of evil deity, with no other figure to pray to or look to for salvation, was considerably darker than any of the ideas that had surrounded Soap in his youth.
Corvo paused, considering his response carefully. "Only that the Outsider exists," he said slowly, "But I don't believe he's necessarily evil. More that he's..."
"Benevolent?"
"No. Simply...ambiguous. I believe he's a quiet observer of sorts, a neutral spectator who may give us a little push every now and again, may slip his influence into our world, but not for any particular result."
Soap remained silent, frowning at the ceiling. His own religious beliefs were a mystery even to him; on most days he'd probably say something similar to Corvo in regards to the God he was raised to believe in, but considering the alternatives to someone raised under the Abbey, he couldn't decide if such an outlook was comforting or just bleak.
"Of course, if I said that to anyone in the Abbey—or anyone else who cared enough—I'd be dragged away by the Overseers for being a heretic," Corvo added with a dry chuckle, distracting Soap from his train of thought. "The Abbey doesn't look too kindly on those whose opinions differ from the norm, as you can imagine. And I'm certain they all think me a heretic anyway. Apparently, there are rumors that I am in league with the Outsider himself."
"Why is that?"
Corvo fell silent for a few moments. "My escape from prison was against all odds," he murmured after a while. "I was weak with hunger and exhaustion, only a few hours out of the torture chamber, and yet I managed to slip out without getting spotted more than once—and that one time was because I blew the front door wide open, jumped into the moat and swam for the sewers where half the prison guard searched for me." Corvo laid down on his side, pulling his blanket over his shoulders and holding it there with one hand.
"No shit…" Breaking out of prison was one thing, but breaking out hours after experiencing torture that he'd no doubt gone through almost every day for six months...Soap didn't know anyone back home who could accomplish such a feat. Price himself only made it out of the gulag because the 141 was there to rescue him. Soap couldn't help the wave of respect for Corvo that washed over him. "I'm amazed that you got out of there at all."
"So am I," Corvo replied. "The Outsider must've walked with me that day; I don't know how else I would've survived."
There was a long stretch of silence as Soap searched for something to say, his mind continuously drawing up blanks. Sleep still beckoned, and his eyelids were only getting heavier and heavier with each passing moment, and Soap felt as though sleep was just within his reach. Maybe if he closed his eyes now—
"MacTavish?" Corvo called softly, rolling onto his back. "Is there something else you like to be called? Something your friends call you?"
Soap glanced up at the bed, only able to see Corvo's hand dangling over the edge. "…Soap," he answered after a moment's hesitation. "Why?"
"You wouldn't mind if I called you that, right?"
Soap closed his eyes. "No, I guess not."
"Good," Corvo muttered, the word punctuated by a loud yawn. The bed creaked as Corvo shifted one final time and fell still.
Soap remained still for a few moments before rolling back onto his side, facing away from Corvo as he pulled his blanket up to his chin. His socked feet were cold, but at this point, he didn't care. He simply waited for sleep to take him, eventually slipping into unconsciousness.