Author Note: Consider leaving a review of your thoughts, especially of what you think of Fredricx's and Lucas's personalities, how I am portraying life in Yharham, and how I am portraying life in the Victorian Era. Also, would you like to see me write through the game's story or make up my own path for Fredricx in the Bloodborne world?

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Chapter 4

Night seemed unnaturally long. Seconds did not become minutes in increments of sixty. Minutes did not become hours in increments of sixty. It seemed far slower, but the clock knew no better. Ettie and Lucas were still asleep in their respective chairs. Fredricx remained quietly. At one point, he fetched a slice of bread from the countertop. Aside from that, he just listened, straining to hear what was going on outside.

"Get out of the way!" There was a shout from outside. It was followed by the scream of a beast and the clang of a weapon.

"This way," another called. Their footsteps petered off into the distance.

Within time, there was a knock on the door. Fredricx could smell a hunter. Their smell went beyond sweat and fresh blood. There was something fundamentally wrong with it. Hunters smelled of something sour, but alluringly repulsive. "Could you spare a hunter a vial of blood?" the voice asked, "I'm running low, doing this service to Yharham." There was a chuckle and uneasy clanking of weapons.

"None here," Fredricx responded flatly. He glanced backwards, and Ettie was now awake, giving him a confused, frightened stare.

"I just need one," the hunter continued. "I'm trying to save the city."

"None. I don't have any."

At once, fists came crashing down on the door. The table, in front of the door, shook a little. Ettie let out a sizeable whimper as if she had been struck instead of the door. Fredricx snatched up his gun. He waited.

Eventually, the hunter backed away from the door and proceeded to bother their other neighbors, making the same demands. Most were smart enough not to open doors during the hunt. Not all hunters were friendly. Some were aggressive toward anything that had breath, beast or not.

"I'm scared," Ettie whispered, opening her arms to Fredricx, who sat the weapon down on the table.

"I know," he soothed, embracing her tightly, "The Scourge will be over soon. The morning will come. We will stay safe."

There was no going back to sleep for her now. For the rest of the night, Fredricx held Ettie as she gripped him, tensing at other noises.

"The morning will come," she would repeat to him.

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Eventually, it did. The table was moved from in front of the door and resumed its primary position. The incense was dampened and brought inside to prevent thieves from snatching it up for themselves.

Next, breakfast, of more scrambled eggs, was eaten. They visited the bathhouse, and Fredricx and Lucas walked Ettie to the gate of the manor she was working at today.

Yharham was not a beautiful site. As predicted, blood filled in cracks between the stones in the street. Many of the corpses had already been disposed of as there was a large crew who would get rid of them before many of the townspeople emerged from their homes.

However, the stench still clung in the air, invading the lungs of those who bothered to inhale. It was sour, metallic, and reeked of blood. In the distance, smoke could be seen and smelled. Fire would cleanse the streets. It killed what was left of the Baffling Sickness, one of the many ways people could be transformed into beasts on a night of the Scourge.

The shipyard was disastrous. Fredricx and Lucas tied plain cloth around their heads to cover the nose and mouth. Many of the other shiphands were waiting. Most were accounted for. There was a sort of false pity for those who were not present.

The group waited on orders from August even though orders were clear. They were always the same after a Scourge.

Fredricx, like many others, sat on the edge of the dock, feet dangling over. The tide was low, but the salt air was better smelling than the abrasive blood and fire.

In the hour, August appeared. He was dressed crisply, suit and tie. He had a fancy mask over his face that had goggles built into it for vision. The wealthy afforded lavish Scourge gear. It was a sort of fashion trend with some usefulness. "I see most of you survived," he commented nonchalantly. August clasped his hands, "Okay, time to clean these decks. Warren and Joel, go get the buckets and sponges." They were handed a silver key. "Fredricx, I'm going to need to meet with you after the day is up. Hope that isn't an issue."

"No, sir," Fredricx answered. There was an internal eyeroll.

They spent the rest of the day scrubbing the docks. It was exhausting. The soap was bitter against the skin. The splinters treated hands no better. These annoyances were nothing compared to the back pain from being haunched over for hours on end.

Lunch break was an enjoyed reprieve, especially since a local religious organization, that was essentially non-existent in comparison to the glory of the healing church, fed all of the shipyard hands. They did this on occasion as a way to pollster their popularity among possible converts. That part didn't matter to Fredricx, but he was still grateful for a meal that didn't contain scrambled eggs. The soup was watery, but contained small chunks of sausage, carrots, potatoes, and celery.

Fredricx brought the bowl to his lips, slurping the rest of the broth. Finishing it off, he swiped the back of his hands across his mouth and beard. Glancing over to Lucas, who sat a few feet away, but far closer than everyone else, Fredricx asked, "Why aren't you eating?"

There was a long cough, followed by a sharp inhale with mucus being swallowed. "I am just not hungry."

"Okay."

They sat for a couple of moments quietly. Their fellow workers discussed the Scourge, who was gladly alive, sadly alive, gladly dead, and sadly dead.

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"Lunch is over," August announced over the chattering of the other shiphands. The gossip from the Scourge was too rich to pass up for most. It was too enticing to find out who had been taking blood ministration when they said they were not. Who had become a beast? Why did they? Were predictions correct? Who won the gamble?

Fredricx stood slowly, and using his hands to support his lower back, he stretched. His fingers still felt tingly from the stringent soap. Fredricx use to grumble about Ettie's complaints of her hands and fingers because of this same soap she used to launder the clothes of the more fortunate. Now having to use it himself on the occasion, he did not dare to complain any longer. It left the skin of the fingers feeling raw and broken. Bleeding was not uncommon for those less accustomed to it. In fact, many of the shiphands, including himself, would likely arrive the next day with bandages around the knuckles.

"Didn't you, boys, hear me?" August demanded, his rat-like face twisting and turning a shade of red. "Get back to work."

There was a mumble among many, "Yes, sir."

"I'm tired of being disrespected, Lucas," Fredricx grunted to his friend, who was attempting to soothe his aching hands with what was left of the water he had been drinking. "We work all day with no respect. What is a man without respect to his name?"

"You say that everyday, Fredricx," Lucas breathed out. "It's better than working in a shut up factory."

The blood vessels in his forehead throbbed, starting to cause a splintering headache in addition to actual splinters, raw hands, and an aching back. Fredricx massaged his temples to relieve some of the pressure. "I wish I could be a soldier again. I was respected."

"Right now, you are a shiphand, Fredricx," Lucas replied, "We both are."

With that, they went back to scrubbing under August's evil eyes. Eventually, the scrubbing and rinsing of the docks became monotonous. It was like clockwork, and like a clock, little thinking was required. It didn't seem long before that they were finished and being paid by August, who must have been feeling a little less selfish than normal because he was smiling as he paid each of them. Lucas and Fredricx were last in line because then, it would be easiest to speak with August afterwards as he had previously requested.

"Mr. Lucas," August said, while handing over a half of a shilling into the palm of Fredricx's friend.

"Thank you, sir," Lucas pocketed the coin and started to the street. Fredricx knew he would wait for him there.

"Mr. Fredricx," August started, fishing around in a red velvet bag. Coins rattled around inside. August produced two whole shillings and a couple of pence and handed it to the surprised, but wary Fredricx. "Mr. Vinge," he started again matter of factly, "The Scourges have brought economic hardships on many businesses in Yharham, including this one. Ships are not docking. I have lost many high end clients. They fear damage to their products and reputation by doing business in Yharham. Because of these losses, I am having to displace some of the shiphands." There was a pause. "Mr. Vinge, I am sorry to inform you that your services can no longer be afforded. I would be willing to provide a good reference for you as you choose to seek other employment."

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