Chapter Four: The Initiation
Where the corpse-strewn streets and shattered windows gave way to cast iron fences and graffiti-free walls, was the Imperial District. Despite its pleasingly sterile environment, it was an ugly place; a soulless labyrinth of dark, cobbled walkways, perpetuated by sneering faces and sideways glances.
The walk over had been a nostalgic experience for Pleto and Royce. They had taken the scenic route, past the river, where the smell of decomposing fish had invigorated their nostrils with a smell both old and new. Both familiar, and distant. But it comforted them nonetheless.
The smells that seeped from the Imperial streets were much weaker, but had an unfriendly aroma. Like brickworks and chemicals, it smelt like the industry. It was off-putting.
There were no rats here. The gigantic, looming Wall of Light made that very clear. As Pleto had watched, a fly had drifted into it, and was immediately displaced, becoming a murky cloud of ash and smoke. Royce had jokingly asked Pleto to touch it with his dick. Pleto had, of course, not complied, but a smile still rose to his lips to see his friends spirits reignited.
The offices of the City Watch were no more of a rewarding sight. The bars on the windows seemed poised to ward people away, rather than to welcome them in. Gargoyles with twisted, snarling faces watched passer-bys from their aerial positions; their unmoving eyes following Pleto and Royce all the way to the doors.
There was a scruffy boy barely into his teens, scrubbing down the steps, despite the fact that they already had a distinctive shine to them, where they had been washed only a few hours previously. Pleto and Royce stepped by him, ignoring the desolate look in his eyes as his head turned to observe them.
With a loud knocking, the doors swung open, revealing a long, red hallway spiced with display cases in every size imaginable. Some contained weapons of varying types: crossbows, swords, knives etc, and others contained books with scuffed covers, possibly relics of a more prosperous Dunwall.
As the pair swept into the hall, they were greeted by a multitude of sour and grim-looking faces, each belonging to a man in similar ragged clothes, clearly lined up for the same purpose as Pleto and Royce: to be initiated.
A loud voice boomed across the lengthy space, bringing the attention of the recruits back to the front. Pleto and Royce walked slowly and cautiously over to join them.
The man who was speaking was in his late fifties, and wore a complexion that indicated years of hardship and toiling. He had a grizzled greying beard, and a cap with numerous eye-catching declarations, similar if not identical to the uniform which he wore on his torso. He identified himself as Captain Scirvell, and wished everyone the best of luck before stepping away from the microphone, and being replaced by a much younger man who seemed to have a permanent scowl on his face.
"Right," he said in a cold, raspy voice. "You lot want to be in the City Watch?"
No 'one answered him, perhaps out of fear, but silence seemed to be the answer he had been looking for, because he continued.
"You may be the most pathetic bunch of recruits I have seen in here for a very long time. Barely fit to inhabit your tatters, never mind a uniform of honour!"
His lizard-like eyes swivelled around the room, filled with disdain. As he spoke, he showered some of the men at the front with a gloss of saliva, but nobody dared to complain.
"Nevertheless!" he exclaimed, making a few of the younger recruits jump, "You will be given the opportunity to prove your worth. A trial by fire, if you like."
His words provoked several nervous looks from the assembly, but he was completely indifferent to their distress.
"I am Lieutenant Crane. I will be assessing you for the next few hours. I will be the final word in your initiation process. If you have a problem with that, you can leave now."
A few men looked longingly towards the doors, but no 'one moved.
Crane smiled, but there was no joy in his eyes. "Good," he muttered, clearing his throat before continuing. "You will move to the Training Hall A immediately. Take one sword from the sheathes as you pass. If anyone takes a second, or tries to conceal his weapon, he will be shot on the spot. Do I make myself clear?"
Silent confirmation over, he stood back from the microphone, licking his lips with anticipation. Now that the tension had been relieved, Pleto and Royce were able to exchange looks of anguish.
Royce laughed nervously. "This is gonna be fun, huh?"
Pleto shrugged. "They always make it sound worse than it is. You know, so that the cowards will be outed, and the solid prospects will be easier to find."
They queued with the others, some of whom had turned a queasy green. Upon reaching the weapons rack, Pleto took the hilt of a longsword, and drew it from its sheath. The blade was dull to the touch; of course, it was only a training sword. Yet, Pleto found the weapon to be perfectly balanced in his grasp, and swung it around demonstratively with ease.
When he looked into the blade's glassy reflection, he was suddenly alarmed to notice a pale face behind him, watching intently. He swung around, but was met only with Royce's astonished look.
"Woah!" he cried, "Watch where your pointing that thing, will you!"
"Sorry," Pleto said, the adrenaline still rushing in his veins. "I thought..." he began, trailing off as his thoughts abandoned him.
Royce gave him an odd look, before pulling a heavy greatsword from the rack. His muscles visibly strained as he lifted it to his shoulder, and laid it to rest.
"This thing's pretty light," Royce lied, his forehead beginning to sweat.
Pleto didn't hear him, however. His thoughts were still with the pale man. The man who could disappear at will. The man who had chosen Pleto, and would not leave him be.
The Outsider.
The Training Hall was a vast, yet wholly empty space, the only sounds penetrating its vacuum the metallic clunking of swords and basic body armour as the trainees entered it. Everyone took their places at various points in the Hall, and stood attentively, their weapons slung in their sheathes. Not one of them breathed as Crane re-entered the room via a balcony that overlooked the hall.
"Welcome to basic training," he sneered from his roost. "Here you either fall like the worthless scraps of shit that you are, or rise to our challenge. Some of you may be wondering what the nature of our training is!" We all were, but conjunctively, we feared it. "Do you picture a gladiator-style battle royale? Hah! We are not barbarians. You must confront your fears up close and personal, or else you will never dominate them!"
Somewhere in the distance, there was a clanging sound as a metal bolt was drawn back. Like a lock. To a prison. Suddenly, Pleto wished he'd taken his offer of leaving when he had the chance.
"We all loathe them," Crane declared. "We are all disgusted by them. Today... you will take your first step towards taking back our city, from these menaces!"
Scurrying, almost as if it was inside the walls. Several men drew their swords.
"Be aware!" Crane hollered with a gaping smile. "One bite is all it takes!"
And then, the walls of sanity broke down, the floor alive with writhing masses of black and grey flesh. Rats, and hundreds of them. Their mouthes snapped and slobbered as they charged at us at full speed. Clearly, they hadn't been fed in a very long time, and the opportunity to enjoy a feast like this was utterly absorbing.
Swinging my sword at the ground desperately, I noticed the silver glint of the blade distorted by an expanding river of red. Apparently, I was hitting them. And yet, they kept coming. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man fall to his knees, and swallowed by the dark swarms. I knew then that I would never see the man again. Pleto was laughing; the psycho. Trust him to deride something so passionately, and then enjoy it so.
As more and more rats became corpses, and the once-sterile floor ran crimson red with rodent guts, the sounds of fighting began to die down, much to my relief. When the last of the detestable creatures had been reunited with the muck, I heard Crane clapping slowly from the balcony.
"Very nice! Only three deaths this time. Getting better, recruits! Now, if you've been bitten, own up now. Your punishment will be severe, of course, but we're going to check you on the way out anyway, so you might as well tell us now!"
One shaky hand was raised to the air; a young boy with aspirations of manhood, and a little moustache to boot. His voice shook harder than his hands as he spoke. "Do you have any of Piero's Remedy?"
Crane laughed. "Of course! But you're not having it though."
The man went white as a sheet. "But, you said-"
BANG
Blood ran from the circular wound in his head, and his eyes darkened. I barely heard the sound of his body crumpling as it hit the cold ground.
Crane looked out over the masses, his eyes egging us on, taunting, daring us to make the same mistake, and allowing him to deal the same punishment. Eventually, he cleared his throat, and spoke one last time. "Out there, on the streets of our beautiful city, the plague is your ultimate enemy. Rats form the foundations of chaos, but they do not topple them. Congratulations on passing the initiation. Sadly, it gets much, much harder from here. See you in the morning."
His rasping chuckles were carried off with him as he strode away from the balcony, leaving us alone with our thoughts, and the putrid smell of rats blood and rotting flesh.
Suffice to say, I slept well that night.