"They're hiding something from us."
Soap glanced up from where he doodled in his journal, watching as Corvo paced back and forth, tossing an uneaten pear between his hands. It was late morning in Dunwall, five days after the assassination of High Overseer Campbell and the seizure of his Black Book. Soap and Corvo had taken their breakfast on the roof of the Hound Pits, where they could eat and relax in relative peace while they waited for something to happen. At least, Soap was relaxing, seated quietly on the metal stairs leading back to the attic; Corvo, on the other hand, restlessly paced the roof, his breakfast long forgotten as he—up until moments ago—silently ruminated. Unfortunately for Soap, the smell of Corvo's abandoned jellied eels on toast was starting to attract flies.
"The Loyalists?" Soap asked, waving away a fly that wandered too close to his own half-eaten toast. The Loyalist trio had been cooped up in Admiral Havelock's quarters for days now, hard at work decoding the contents of Campbell's journal, searching for any secrets that could aid in the conspiracy's endeavor—including the location of Emily Kaldwin. That last bit was something that Corvo had been waiting for since they day Emily went missing, and now that the Loyalists figuratively and literally had her location right in their hands, Corvo's agitation grew the longer they remained silent.
"Yes. They know something and they're hiding it." Corvo's jaw tightened as he turned and strode towards the balcony, facing the Wrenhaven. "I can feel it."
Soap pursed his lips, tapping his pen against his open journal. "If they're hiding something," he stated, carefully watching Corvo's reaction, "then there's a reason for it. I'm sure that if there wasn't any good reason, the Admiral already would've had you act on...whatever it is you think they have."
Corvo stopped his pacing to turn and face Soap, looking particularly unimpressed. "Was that supposed to help?"
"What? You know I'm right." As Corvo huffed and began to pace again, Soap took a moment to pause and take a bite from his toast. The salty taste of jellied eels still lingered, much to Soap's dismay. He wrinkled his nose and took his time chewing. "The Admiral knows the risks - he wouldn't be hiding Emily's location unless he had a very good reason," he said around his mouthful of toast. "That's what this is about, right?"
Corvo scoffed. "How did you guess?" he mumbled dryly. He then sighed, once again approaching the balcony and pausing there, leaning against the railing and tossing his pear up and down in one hand. Corvo fell silent once more, and Soap took that as his cue to return to his doodling, hunched over his journal—which was balanced in his lap—with his pen in one hand and his toast in the other.
Soap searched for where he'd left off, the unfinished sketch of Martin staring up at him. Soap had taken to sketching the residents of the Hound Pits, inked portraits interspersed among his written journal entries. Drawing had been a hobby of his since he was a child, and it was something that helped him passed the time—it gave his hands something to do, gave him a way to remember faces and locations. His old journal was full of drawings, and Soap intended to fill this one with art, too.
Finding the point where he'd stopped, Soap pressed the tip of the pen in the paper, starting the process of sketching out some of the finer details. The linework was quickly ruined as Soap winced when, out of nowhere, Corvo's raised voice rang out.
"If the Admiral knows where she is, what's so pressing that he has to hide that information from me? What could he possibly gain from that?" Soap pursed his lips and sighed sharply through his nose, then glanced up at Corvo. He was now upright and pacing again, still tossing around his pear.
"You know, if he really knows where she is, don't you think he would've sent us to fetch her already?" Soap questioned, the words riding out on a sigh. "The longer we wait, the more likely that she'll be moved, and then we'd be back to square one."
"I know, Soap, I just..." Corvo pinched the bridge of his nose, brows knitting together, as he hissed through his teeth. "I don't know. Maybe I'm wrong." Corvo paused, and then he let out a low, frustrated cry, turning sharply on his heel. "No, he's keeping something from me. Something is off."
"Well, whatever it is, you won't find out by wearing a bloody hole in the concrete," Soap quipped, earning another unimpressed look from his companion. "Now, will you come finish your damn food already? Or throw it out. It's attracting flies."
Rolling his eyes, Corvo gave in and approached the stairs where Soap sat, huffing as Soap waved away flies and scooted over to give him some space. Holding his pear in one hand, Corvo bent over and picked up his plate with the other. He moved to sit down, then paused, his eyebrows raising as he took a good look at the food before him.
"...Did I have this many jellied eels before?" Corvo asked, shooting a look in Soap's direction, spotting the suspiciously eel-free toast in his hand. Soap grinned, shrugged, and looked back down at his journal, but not before he caught another roll of Corvo's eyes. Corvo sat down beside Soap and balanced the plate on his thighs. Pushing around bits of eel with his fingers, Corvo raised the pear in his hand to his lips.
There was a creak as the attic door was pushed open, and Soap looked up at the sudden noise, while Corvo remained still. Someone—Callista, Soap quickly realized—stepped through the doorway, looking around briefly before her eyes fell on Soap and Corvo.
"Ah, there you are!" she said, reaching up and tucking a stray hair behind her ear. "Admiral Havelock and Lord Pendleton wanted you two. They're down in the front yard."
"So much for breakfast," Soap muttered, looking back at Corvo, who was still frozen with the pear still held up to his mouth, teeth just barely grazing the fruit's skin. Corvo started straight ahead, one brow raised and face and shoulders slumped as he let out a defeated sigh. He didn't react when Soap grinned and reached over, tapping his shoulder with his knuckles, pen still in hand. "Come on, mate, let's go." Soap closed his journal and, gathering his things, stood and turned to walk up the stairs, still nibbling on his toast. Corvo, after a few moments, stood as well, his plate in one hand and his uneaten pear in the other as he followed Soap and Callista inside.
"Ah, there you are," Admiral Havelock called out, waving Soap and Corvo over as he saw them enter the front yard. He stood by a half-wall near the pub, with Lord Pendleton—who was already nursing the small silver flask that never seemed to leave his hand—standing only a meter or so to his right. "Over here."
Soap and Corvo exchanged glances, then silently crossed the courtyard side by side, approaching the Admiral. Whatever this was about, Soap figured, he doubted it was about Emily—or anything in the Black Book, for that matter. Corvo must've had the same assumption; Soap heard him sigh, the annoyance practically rolling off him in waves.
"What's this about, Admiral?" Corvo demanded as he drew closer, stopping in front of the Admiral and placing his hands on his hips. He did little to hide his irritation, lips pursed as he waited for an explanation. Soap stopped beside him and gave Corvo a sideways glance, one brow raised. "Do you have any information pertaining to Emily?"
The Admiral, too, raised a brow at Corvo's sharp tone, his arms folding across his chest. "Straight to the point, are we?" he mumbled, glancing at Lord Pendleton, who silently shrugged and took a swig from his flask before tucking it back into his coat. "In any case," Havelock continued, "this isn't about Emily. Have some patience."
"With all due respect," Corvo began sharply, "that doesn't answer—"
"What's it about, then?" Soap interrupted, giving Corvo another sideways glance. His ears burned as he met Corvo's glare. Soap forced himself to keep a straight face, looking back at the Admiral and trying to ignore the way Corvo was trying to burn a hole through his skull with his eyes.
Havelock looked between Soap and Corvo, his jaw tightening briefly. His patience was thin, Soap realized, thinner than Corvo's; he didn't like being questioned.
"One of the servants informed me that they'd heard something last night," the Admiral explained after a few moments of silence, unfolding his arms and clasping them behind his back. "Whatever it was," he continued, "it was moving in the storm drains beneath the building."
"Is it the City Watch?" Soap asked.
"A weeper's more likely," Havelock responded, turning his head and looking down in the space behind the half wall beside him. Soap craned his neck, trying to follow Havelock's gaze, and saw that behind the half wall was a small set of stairs. Where they led to, he couldn't see; if Soap assumed correctly, they probably led down to the storm drains. "Poor bastard."
A weeper? Soap remembered Corvo's explanation of weepers on his first day at the Hound Pits. That's what's down there?
"There's no hope for them when the plague gets that far," Havelock said with a shake of his head. "Nothing but a shuffling corpse full of sickness and insects, if you'd ask me. I'd send a servant down there to investigate—" He looked pointedly between Soap and Corvo. "—But they'd die of fear on the spot, I'm afraid."
"So this is what you're wasting our time with, Admiral?" Corvo hissed. Havelock gave him a hard stare, lips pursed. "A weeper in the sewers?"
"I need you two to make sure that it is a weeper, and not some nosy guardsman getting too close," Havelock responded, an edge to voice. "And if it is a weeper, it must be taken care of." Narrowing his eyes, the Admiral added, "You do realize what would happen if the plague were to spread here, don't you, Corvo?"
Soap glanced at Corvo, almost afraid of the reaction he'd see. Corvo was pointedly looking away from the Admiral, glaring at the wall behind him, lip twitching in the beginnings of an irritated sneer. Soap chewed on the inside of his lip. He knew that Corvo's patience was wearing thinner and thinner with each passing day, and his suspicion that Havelock knew something that he wasn't letting on wasn't helping matters in the slightest. But the Admiral's patience was thin as well, and easily broken, by the looks of it.
Lord Pendleton cleared his throat, breaking the silence, and stepped closer to Havelock. "Admiral," he muttered, leaning in close. "Give them the key."
"...Right," Havelock grumbled after a moment of hesitation, reaching into his pocket and digging something out of it. "Corvo," he said firmly, his expression unchanging as Corvo turned his cold gaze on him, "Here's the key to the hatches." He pulled the key from his pocket and held it out at Corvo, who hesitated before snatching it from the Admiral and stuffing it into his own pocket. "You two should see Piero before going down there. He should have some elixir for you, and it'd be a good idea to check over your weapons."
Corvo drew a breath as if to say something else, then released it in a sigh. "Fine," he mumbled, turning on his heel and pointedly bumping into Soap's shoulder. "Let's go get that elixir, then."
Soap watched Corvo walk off, then looked back at the Admiral. Havelock stared after Corvo as he departed, his lips still pressed into a thin line and his pale eyes still as hard as stone. His gaze shifted to Soap, and he crossed his arms over his chest, raising a brow.
"He's worried about Emily, sir," Soap explained in the hopes that Havelock would understand. His expression didn't change. "All this time with no news and no action has been putting him on edge."
"I can see that," Lord Pendleton remarked, digging his flask back out of his coat. Soap tilted his head at him. The lord was a tall, wiry man, with a face that reminded Soap of some sort of rodent—a rat, perhaps. Pendleton took a long drink from his flask before adding, "Did you see the way he looked at you, Admiral? He looked seconds away from mutiny."
"Yes, Treavor, I saw," Havelock sighed, his expression shifting into one of exasperation. "He was standing right in front of me."
Soap opened his mouth to speak when Corvo's voice rang from the other side of the courtyard. "Soap!" he barked, and Soap turned around to face the direction of Corvo's voice. "Are you coming or what?"
"Coming!" Soap called out in response. He turned to briefly nod at Havelock and Pendleton, muttering a low "excuse me" before jogging after Corvo, who waited impatiently at the end of the courtyard, a thick air of irritation hanging around him.
"What the hell was that?" Soap hissed once he was close enough to hear, a flash of annoyance shooting through him when Corvo silently turned away and started for Piero's workshop. He reached for Corvo's shoulder, intending to stop him and make him at least give some sort of response. "Corvo—"
Corvo grumbled profanity in Serkonan and Soap took that as his cue to shut up, grinding his teeth together and shoving his hand in his pocket as he followed Corvo the rest of the way to the workshop. He understood Corvo's stress—as much as anyone could, at least—but he'd mouthed off to the Admiral, and everything in Soap screamed that it was a bad fucking idea. Despite his role in the conspiracy, Corvo was still very much under the Admiral's mercy—he could've been brought here as their prisoner and forced to cooperate at gunpoint if Havelock had been so inclined—and the last thing the conspiracy needed was its two most important members butting heads.
"Piero," Corvo called out when they had reached the threshold of the workshop, stopping just beyond it. Piero himself was on the lower floor, his back turned to them as he was hunched over a workbench, fiddling with something or other that Soap couldn't begin to identify. He turned when he heard his name called, blinking owlishly from behind his round glasses. Piero had gotten over what had occurred between him and Soap a few days before, and when he saw Soap, his lips twitched upwards in a small smile.
"Good morning," he greeted in his usual slow way of speaking. "What can I get you two?"
"We're going down to the storm drains," Corvo said shortly. "Have you got any elixir?
Piero frowned, humming to himself as he rubbed his hands together. "I believe I have some left, somewhere," he mumbled, and the engineer turned on his heel, striding up to the metal staircase leading up to his quarters. "Wait here, I'll bring it down for you."
Soap watched Piero disappear up the stairs, then turned to Corvo, who stood with his arms crossed and a hard look on his face, jaw clenching as he ground his teeth. "Corvo..."
"He's stalling," Corvo grumbled, reaching up and tucking a lock of hair behind his ear. "I know he knows something, Soap." Brows knitted together, he turned to meet Soap's gaze. "I can feel it."
"Aye, well, that doesn't mean you can go mouthing off to him!" Soap snapped, and Corvo rolled his eyes and looked away, scowling at the far wall. Soap huffed, closing his eyes and shaking his head. He paused, thinking a moment, before looking back up at Corvo. "How do you figure?"
Corvo was silent for a few seconds, his scowl only deepening as he searched for an answer. With a grunt, he placed his hands on his hips, looking at the stairs instead of at Soap. Soap pursed his lips. "Don't you think he would've told me if he didn't have anything on Emily yet?" Corvo turned his head again and Soap saw him look at him through the corner of his eye. "He didn't say he didn't have information on Emily. Do you know what he said?"
Soap sighed. "He said—"
"He said, 'have patience.' 'Have patience,' Soap, he has to be hiding something."
Soap groaned, rubbing at his temple. "That could mean anything, Corvo," he grumbled. "Literally. I know you're concerned but don't you think you're looking a bit too far into this?"
Corvo whipped around to face Soap, his brows arched. "Am I—"
"Here it is, gentlemen!" Piero's voice called from the staircase, followed by the sound of him treading down the metal stairs. Corvo and Soap turned in time to see Piero step down onto the ground floor, holding two vials of bright blue liquid, one in each hand. "A vial of Piero's Spiritual Remedy for each of you." He walked up to the two men and held out the vials expectantly; murmuring their thanks, Soap and Corvo took their portions. Soap glanced up at Corvo through the corner of his eye and saw that Corvo was watching him similarly. "I used the last of my ingredients to make today's rations. Corvo, if you could, please remind the Admiral to help me procure more."
"I thought you were on your own for that?" Corvo mumbled, opening the vial and peering inside. Satisfied, he started to drink from it, making a face as the liquid hit his tongue. Soap turned the vial over in his hands, trying to figure out how to open it—these stupid things are always hard to open—before finding the top and wrestling it off. He sniffed at the elixir, his nose wrinkling at the sickly-sweet smell. It reminded him of children's medicine. Deciding that he'd rather get it over with, Soap drank a mouthful, trying not to gag at the taste and the slimy way it went down. It was far sweeter than it smelled.
Piero sniffed and pushed his glasses up his nose. "I'm not sure if the Admiral truly realizes it, but I'm wholly dependent on him when it comes to supplies. Where else am I going to get the money?"
"The black market?" Corvo suggested, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He pointed over Piero's shoulder, towards the contraption he'd left on the workbench. "You could always sell that thing for scraps."
Piero stepped back, appalled. "Or I could, perhaps, not do that."
"I'll tell him for you, Piero," Soap put in after choking down the first mouthful of elixir, scowling down at the remnants of the vial. "...Do I need to drink all of this before going down there?"
"All of it," Corvo confirmed. "If we're dealing with weepers, we need all the protection we can get."
"Weepers?" Piero blinked. "There are weepers in the storm drains?"
Corvo shrugged, pausing to take another swig from his vial. "The Admiral seems to think so."
"Well, you can't go down there unprotected! Let me fetch some face coverings—"
Corvo quickly lowered his vial. "Wait, Piero, that isn't necessary—"
But it was too late; Piero had already turned tail and run back up the stairs. Soap and Corvo exchanged an exasperated look and walked further into the workshop. There was a desk by the staircase, and at it a chair; Corvo took a seat there, tossing back the last of his elixir and setting the empty vial on the desk. Soap struggled to sip at his, trying to ignore the way Corvo smirked at the faces he was involuntarily making.
"Enjoying yourself?"
Soap lowered the vial long enough to scowl at Corvo, figuring his expression would suffice as a response. Corvo snickered and Soap went back to drinking his elixir; he was getting closer and closer to the bottom, thankfully.
Piero returned from the upper level, holding something in his hands; two somethings, Soap noticed. They were white face masks, like medical masks, just large enough to cover the nose and mouth while leaving the upper half of the face exposed. Piero handed one to Corvo first before approaching Soap.
"It's suspected that the plague is capable of travelling through the air," Piero explained, pressing the mask into Soap's free hand. "We're not quite sure, but it's better to be safe than sorry. And if there are weepers down there, be sure to keep your distance." Piero wrinkled his nose. "They may still be alive, but in the later stages they tend to attract flies."
Soap felt a surge of nausea and wasn't sure if it was because of the elixir he was drinking or the mental image of fly-infested weepers that shuffled across his mind's eye.
"I've never seen one up close," Corvo admitted, "so I wouldn't know. I'm assuming you have, Piero?"
Piero shook his head. "Not alive, at least. I have studied their blood once, however; fascinating, truly. The plague is an elegant creature." Corvo and Soap exchanged another look. "Which brings up the question..." Piero turned to Corvo, clasping his hands together. "Corvo, if whatever's down there turns out to indeed be a weeper, I have a great favor to ask of you."
Soap had a creeping suspicion of what Piero's request was going to be; apparently, so did Corvo, judging from the way he sighed and leaned back into his seat. "Go on," Corvo mumbled, and Piero's eyes brightened.
"If you would be so kind as to not kill the weeper, I would be greatly indebted to you," Piero explained, either not noticing or ignoring the way Corvo's lip curled in disgust. "A live specimen would give me a great chance to study the disease and alter my remedy to be much more effective."
"If you expect us to bring it up here..."
"Oh, heavens, no! Just neutralize it and leave it in the storm drains, and I'll bring my tools down there." Piero peered at Corvo. "You can utilize the sleep poison I provided you."
Corvo closed his eyes, reaching up and rubbing his temple as he thought. Soap looked down at his vial, swishing around the last of his elixir before tossing it back, grimacing at the taste. He didn't think Piero's idea was a good one; he could wind up bringing the plague to the Hound Pits and getting everyone sick, and Soap wasn't sure if the opportunity to study a life weeper was worth the risk of potentially infecting everyone with a deadly, incurable disease.
"I'll think about it," was Corvo's answer; Piero seemed to be satisfied, as he clapped his hands together with a broad smile.
"Excellent! Thank you so much, Corvo."
Corvo sighed and stood up, leaving his discarded vial of elixir on the desk. "I never said I'd do it, just that I'd think about it," he clarified, stepping past Piero, who turned and watched him as he walked towards the exit. "Soap, you go wait by the hatches. I'm going to fetch my weapons."
"So, do you really think there's a weeper down there?"
Corvo scoffed crouching down beside the hatches leading to the storm drains below, searching for a keyhole. Havelock and Pendleton were nowhere to be seen; most likely returned to their work, still busy with the Black Book. "It's possible," he replied, voice muffled by the white mask covering his face and nose. He paused to reach up and tug at the straps. "It's certainly more likely than a guardsman, at least. This place isn't far from the Flooded District, and weepers tend to wander from there if they don't drop dead fast enough."
Soap watched as Corvo found the lock and pulled out his key, sliding it into the slot. "Has one ever come this far?"
"Not while I was here." Corvo unlocked the hatches and reached for a turn wheel in one of the corners. "One of the servants told me that one wandered up here a few months ago, however. On street level." The wheel in Corvo's hands stubbornly stayed in place and Corvo grunted as he pulled harder. "The Admiral—ugh, damn it, why won't this thing open—the Admiral shot it and had it thrown in the river before it could get too close."
"Christ."
"You keep saying that word, 'Christ.' What does it mean?"
Soap blinked. "...He's a religious figure where I come from. Long story."
"Ah." Corvo gave one final yank on the turn wheel and finally it yielded, turning freely with a resounding creak. Soap reached up and adjusted the mask on his face, the rough material scratching lightly at his nose. A dusty odor clung to the mask—Soap assumed it had been sitting out for quite some time. Deciding that this mask was as comfortable as it could be, he sighed and watched Corvo open the hatches the rest of the way, his hand coming to rest on the pistol loaned to him by Corvo. Corvo had given it to him knowing that Soap's M1911 had almost no ammo, and now the weapon was strapped across his chest, attached to some sort of holster that Soap could just tear the gun off of in a pinch. Despite being a sidearm, the pistol was much bigger than his M1911, and it carried fewer bullets in each magazine. It would have to take some adjustment for Soap to be able to wield it properly, but he hoped wouldn't need it at all. Corvo, meanwhile, had his crossbow, which hung from his belt along with two pouches; Soap assumed that one contained bolts, and the other sleep darts.
"Anyway," Soap continued, "Are you really planning on leaving it alive? How long does that sleep poison even last?"
"An hour," Corvo answered, standing once the hatches were open wide enough. "Approximately. It would give Piero plenty of time to at least start his research, and he has more of that poison he can use when he needs it." Corvo's mask shifted as he scowled. "Let's just hope he has the foresight to kill it when he's done."
"You really think it's worth it?"
Corvo shrugged. "If Piero thinks that he can make some sort of discovery that will help him improve his treatments, then yes," he answered, turning to look at Soap, his brows knitted together. "I'd say it's worth the risk." He gestured towards the open hatch. "Ready?"
Soap hummed, adjusting his mask again. He wasn't sure if it would provide any real protection against the plague, but wearing it gave him some semblance of comfort. Whatever was down there, at least he and Corvo could deal with it from a distance, either way.
"As ready as I'll ever be."
"Good. I'll go first." With that, Corvo turned his back on Soap and jumped down the opening; Soap could hear a grunt and a metallic thud. Drawing a deep breath, Soap gathered his bearings, then jumped down after him.
With a low oof, Soap landed on a metal walkway, landing in a crouch and quickly standing to orient himself. He'd entered an access tunnel, the brick walls lined with moss and mold and the air thick with moisture and the smell of something rotting. Soap wrinkled his nose as the stench attacked his senses, squinting in the dim light of the tunnel and letting his eyes adjust as Corvo went to work at closing the hatches above them, utilizing another turn wheel fixed to the wall. Dim, flickering lights protruded from the tunnel walls, aiding Soap's vision; he could see that the tunnel turned off to the right several meters down, its end out of sight. Soap couldn't hear anything except for his own breathing and the shrill creaking of the wheel as Corvo turned it, the hatch above them groaning as it was shut.
"It smells like something died down here," Soap grumbled, his voice echoing along the tunnel. He tugged at his mask, already feeling smothered. Soap was thankful that he was down here in the winter rather than in the summer; he didn't want to imagine how humid and hot this tunnel got in the hotter months. He turned to look behind him and his gaze was immediately met with a wall two meters from where he stood—there was only one way forward, it seemed.
Corvo grunted in response, stepping beside Soap and simply standing there, his hand resting on his crossbow. Soap looked at him, one brow raised, and saw that Corvo seemed to be staring off into the distance; probably doing his weird sight thing like he did on their mission a few nights before.
Soap scoffed, moving in front of Corvo with his arms crossed. "Oi, Corvo, there's only one way forward." When Corvo didn't respond, Soap waved his hand in front of Corvo's face, frowning when Corvo's eyes didn't follow the movement. "Hel—"
The words became stuck in his throat when Corvo blinked and, suddenly, his eyes were as black as ink, irises and sclera alike swallowed in ebony. Soap winced and jerked his hand back, taking a step back and giving Corvo more room. He looked down, and saw that while Corvo's mark wasn't glowing, something about it seemed...off, like it was giving off a strange aura. Soap wasn't sure if it was actually there or some trick of the light.
Corvo blinked and his eyes went back to normal as quickly as they'd become completely black, his hand coming to rest on the handle of his crossbow. "Let's go," he said, taking a step forward, but he paused when he saw that Soap wasn't moving. He met Soap's wide-eyed stare with both brows raised. "What?"
"Your eyes."
Corvo tilted his head. "What about them?"
Soap stared silently for a few more moments before shaking his head, turning to face the other end of the tunnel. "Nothing," he mumbled, "I must've been seeing things." He started down the tunnel, the metal walkway ringing with each footfall, and a few seconds passed before he heard Corvo follow him.
"I didn't see anything around the corner," Corvo explained, his voice low and muffled by the mask as he fell into step beside Soap. "My void-sight can only go so far. But I can feel a presence down here."
Great. Soap nodded silently as he and Corvo rounded the tunnel corner. A few meters down was another corner, and once they turned it, they suddenly found themselves in a much wider tunnel, the ceiling stretching slightly higher above them. They now stood on a concrete walkway, and beside them was a shallow body of murky water, filled with rubbish that had washed down from the streets. The tunnel itself went two ways, stretching much further down into a curve as well as breaking away into a second opening, the ending of which Soap couldn't see save for the natural light spilled from that direction. He could smell the river. Down the main path, the tunnel curved left, then right again, its end out of sight.
Soap had barely a chance to take another step forward when Corvo's hand shot out and tightly grasped his arm, Soap whipping around to face him. He drew a breath to speak but was interrupted by Corvo lifting his finger in a "silence" gesture, then moving his hand beside his ear. Understanding what Corvo meant, Soap listened closely, his gaze wandering around as he tried to hear whatever it was Corvo wanted him to listen for, one brow raised.
At first there was nothing, just the sounds of the river and the cries of gulls coming from the outside. Then, Soap heard it; a low cough, echoing through the tunnels somewhere in the distance. Soap looked up at Corvo, his brows furrowing. He pulled down his mask to mouth at Corvo:
"A weeper?"
Corvo nodded, and Soap replaced his mask, fitting it as tightly as he could against his nose. Corvo gestured for Soap to follow and took the lead down the tunnel, pulling his crossbow off his belt and digging through one of his ammo pouches as he went. Soap trailed a few paces behind, his hand coming to rest on the grip of Corvo's pistol. He could hear more coughing as they crept down the tunnel, then a groan, reverberating through the brick-walled sewers.
There was a brief section where the concrete walkway dropped off into shallow water before floor returned and the tunnel curved to the right and, Soap assumed, continued straight forward, still unable to see its end from his position. Corvo stepped into the water without hesitation; it came to about halfway up his shins and, unbothered mostly due to his tall boots, waded forward as carefully as he could, taking care to make as little noise as possible in the water. Soap stopped at the edge of the concrete walkway, crinkling his nose down at the water. He could barely see the bottom through all the filth, and he wasn't too thrilled to jump in with his much shorter boots. But it was either get the gross water in his socks or wade in there completely barefoot, and so reluctantly, Soap stepped in, trying not to let the cold water that soaked into his boots and pants bother him too much.
Corvo stopped just before the point where the tunnel veered off to the right, out of sight of whatever might be down there as he pressed his back against the wall. Soap stood near him, not pressed to the wall but far enough away so that he wouldn't be seen by whatever—or, rather, whoever—was down there. The coughing and moaning had grown louder, and was joined by another set of coughs. Shite. There were two.
Corvo gestured for Soap to wait, and then carefully turned and peered around the corner. He quickly turned back around and pressed back up against the wall, pulling something out of one of his ammo pouches—a sleep dart—and loading it into the saddle of his crossbow.
"There are two," Corvo whispered, his voice just barely audible. "One of them went into an access tunnel, the other is in the open. I'll take care of the one outside, and the noise of her fall should draw the other one out." Corvo looked at Soap. "When he comes out, shoot him."
Soap nodded, pulling the pistol off his chest and checking the ammo. It was fully loaded—two bullets.
Guess I'm ready.
Corvo counted down with his fingers, then stepped out from his hiding spot, turning around and levelling his crossbow at his first target. He pulled the trigger and the sleep dart flew free with a snap; there was a cry, and the sound of a dull thud as a body hit the concrete.
"Now!"
Corvo stepped out of the way and Soap rushed forward, turning the corner and resting his finger on the trigger just in time to see a human form step out from some unseen tunnel, turning in Soap's direction.
Soap froze at the sight, his limbs going stiff as though an electric shock had passed through him. The man who'd appeared was pale, so pale he was almost grey, stumbling forward and hunched forward as if he barely had the strength to hold himself up. His mouth hung open as he groaned, and from this distance Soap could see filth caked along his face and down the front of his brown jacket, almost everything stained brown. Flies buzzed around his face, but he didn't seem to care, shuffling in Soap's direction with another loud groan. The weeper's ashen face was streaked with blood, old and fresh, caked along his cheeks and trickling freely from his eyes. His mouth hung open wider, and he let forth a cry—
"Soap, NOW!"
Soap squeezed the trigger without thinking, the recoil sending a shockwave up his arms and chattering his teeth. The first shot missed the weeper entirely, hitting the brick wall on the far side of the tunnel and ricocheting into the water. Soap drew a deep breath and forced his trembling hand to steady, taking aim once more and firing his last bullet. This time, the weeper went down, blood pouring from a hole in his chest as he flew back and landed on the concrete. He gurgled, twitched, and then went still, finally going limp after what felt like ages.
Soap jumped as Corvo's hand clapped down on his shoulder, his grasp firm. "What were you thinking?!" Corvo hissed, and Soap, not bothering to look at him, shook his head, pulling himself free from Corvo's grip. "What the hell were you waiting for?"
"It's nothing," he mumbled, though the way his heart still raced in his chest said otherwise. Corvo exhaled sharply, then stepped around Soap and up onto the concrete.
"Come along," Corvo ordered. "There should be a way up to the pub from here."
Corvo marched forward, and Soap stepped up onto the concrete after him, making a face at the way his socks squelched unpleasantly in his boots. Soap carefully holstered the gun again and followed Corvo down the tunnel. Corvo took a turn to the right and disappeared down another access tunnel, and Soap started to follow, before hesitating and looking back at where he'd killed the weeper.
The weeper's lifeless body was closer now, and Soap could hear the flies that buzzed wildly around his corpse. Soap could see now that the filth on the weeper's face and clothes consisted mainly of grime and bloody vomit, and the glazed eyes that stared blindly up at the ceiling were the reddest Soap had ever seen. Blood still came from the poor bastard's eyes, trickling along his grey face. Feeling a surge of nausea, Soap looked away, not bothering to look at the other weeper Corvo had neutralized as he followed him down the access tunnel.
Piero was still on the ground floor of his workshop when Corvo and Soap returned, still working on his contraption and mumbling to himself as he did so, pausing every few moments to scrawl some notes on a scrap piece of paper. He looked up when Soap rapped his knuckles on the metal threshold, quickly abandoning his work in favor of the two men entering his workspace.
"So?"
"There were two weepers down there," Corvo said, taking off his mask and tossing it on the nearest unoccupied workbench. "We killed one, but left the other alive for you. If you go down there now you should have an hour until she needs another dose of sleep poison."
Piero's eyes brightened and a wide smile spread across his face, the engineer clapping his hands together excitedly. "Wonderful!" he exclaimed. "Thank you so much, Corvo! This is such a great opportunity—"
"Yes, well, be sure to exercise caution," Corvo sighed, turning to Soap as he, too, took off his mask and tossed it beside Corvo's.
Piero pushed his glasses up his nose. "Oh, but of course. You've left the way below unlocked, right?"
"Yes." Corvo pulled the key to the storm drains from his pocket and handed it over to Piero, who grabbed it from him and clutched it tightly on one hand. "Be sure to lock everything up when you're done, alright?"
"Of course, of course! Now, if you'll excuse me..." Piero turned and ran up the stairs to his quarters, shoving his key in his pocket, no doubt going to gather up his supplies.
Soap and Corvo looked at each other as Piero left, Soap raising a brow and Corvo simply shrugging. They both turned and started for the pub, Soap frowning as his socks were still drenched.
"You wouldn't happen to have any spare boots, do you?" Soap asked, groaning when he saw Corvo shake his head. "Great, now I'm gonna be walking around all day with sewer socks."
Corvo snickered. "Aren't you a soldier? Haven't you been in worse conditions before?"
"Aye, but when I'm not in the bloody field it's nice to have warm and dry feet," Soap retorted, scowling when Corvo laughed.
"I can ask the Admiral if he has another pair." Corvo peered down at Soap's boots. "I think he might wear your size."
Soap grunted, letting Corvo open the door to the pub first and step through, trailing behind him. "So, which one of us is taking a bath first?"
"Neither of you." Martin's voice came from the bottom of the staircase, Soap and Corvo stopping and turning at the same to face him as he gestured for the two of them to follow. Exchanging glances, Soap and Corvo silently obeyed, following Martin as he turned and headed back up the stairs, leading them up to the second floor.
"What's this about?" Corvo asked as Martin led them down the corridor to Havelock's chambers. Martin remained silent, and Soap and Corvo exchanged another confused glance. The Overseer pushed open the door to the Admiral's chambers and stepped inside, waiting for Corvo and Soap to follow him in before closing the door behind them.
The windows were cracked open, letting in a breeze that chilled the room and carried the smell of the river. The Admiral himself was sitting at his desk, and Martin went to stand beside him, crossing his arms over his chest and nodding at Havelock. Havelock took one deep drag from a nearly-finished cigarette before extinguishing it, dropping it into an empty glass. On his desk there were papers strewn about, surrounding two notebooks filled to the brim with notes. One of them, Soap noticed, was Campbell's journal.
"Admiral," Corvo started. "What is this abou—"
"We know the location of Emily Kaldwin."
Makarov wasn't sure how much time had passed in this small room. He constantly slipped in and out of consciousness, only waking to nibble on the food that the child here shared with him, only taking as much as he could stomach. He was plagued by constant exhaustion, his limbs weighed down with fatigue long after the initial pain since his awakening passed. His lungs no longer burned as badly, though he still needed to hold back a cough every now and again, and while his body was still tired, the sharp pains had finally ebbed away into a dull ache that was much easier to cope with.
He rarely ever left his little shelter under the desk, despite the urging of the child whenever they were left alone. In fact, he didn't really leave at all, preferring to rest as much as he could, anchored to the musty mattress that he called his own. Now, however, Makarov found himself feeling restless, itching to move, to stretch his limbs and do something before he went mad from boredom. There was only so much he could do beyond torturing himself with thoughts of Dubai, and in the end, the desire to explore this new place took over and Makarov found himself pushing aside the curtain concealing him from the rest of the world, crawling out from under the desk.
He was weak, his body feeling the effects of hunger despite his stomach threatening to expel its contents whenever Makarov tried to eat. Emerging from the total darkness under the desk, Makarov blinked as his eyes adjusted to the low light in the room beyond; there was a single candleholder, holding a few fresh candles that now burned, giving off a soft light that barely reached into the far corners of the room. Makarov reached up and rubbed at his eyes before pulling himself further from beneath the desk, completely freeing himself and coming to rest against the nearest wall. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back until it hit the wall.
"Mister! You're awake!"
Makarov cracked one eye open, peering down in the direction of the voice. It was the little girl, sitting across from him, looking up from where she was hunched over something on the floor; a drawing, from the looks of it. She set aside whatever it was she was working on and scrambled up to him, kneeling beside Makarov and peering up at him with wide dark brown eyes. With the way Makarov was sitting and the way the girl crouched, she wasn't much shorter than he was.
"How are you feeling?" she asked, reaching for Makarov's arm before apparently thinking better of it and resting her hand on the floor instead. Makarov sighed, closing his eyes and splaying his legs out in front of him.
"Fine."
"That's good! Are you hungry? I saved the rest of your pear in case you're—"
"I'm not hungry."
"Oh."
Makarov and the child sat in silence for a while. Makarov pondered what to say, unsure if he really wanted to say anything at all. Despite all his thinking about the Hotel Oasis, he still had no idea how he possibly could have survived what he did, nor did he have any idea of how he could've wound up here, in some dark room with a little kid. If he'd survived after all, then the logical thing would for him to have woken up in... well, he didn't even know where he'd wake up, but certainly not in a place like this.
Not that he even knew what kind of place this was.
"...Child, where are we?"
The girl hummed. "The Golden Cat."
Makarov opened one eye and peered down at her, frowning. "And where is that?"
The girl smiled. "You don't know? We're in Dunwall."
"...Which is..."
The smiled faded and the girl blinked, her brows furrowing. "...In Gristol? The Empire?"
Both eyes were open this time, Makarov turning his head fully to face her. "What Empire?"
"How can you not know the Empire of the Isles?" The child shook her head. "That's the whole world!" She paused, thinking. "Well, except for Pandyssia..."
"Ah, whatever," Makarov growled, closing his eyes again and leaning back into the wall. The girl was speaking nonsense, he was sure; there were no places with the names that the girl had listed, and he didn't have the energy to demand an honest explanation. Maybe she was just as clueless as he was; Makarov hadn't heard her leave once during his waking hours, so it was safe to assume that she was just as trapped as him. But...
She seems very sure of where we are.
"Mister? How did you get here?"
Makarov opened his eyes and looked at the girl from the corner of his eye. "I don't know."
"Why were you hurt?"
"That's not your concern."
"Oh." The girl frowned. "Well, then, where are you from? You sound like you're from Tyvia"— the girl laughed, rubbing the back of her neck—"but you can't possibly be from there if you don't even know what the Empire is..."
"...Russia."
"Where's that?"
"If you don't already know then that's not your concern, either."
The girl grinned. "You're not much of a talker, are you?" When Makarov just stared at her, the girl rubbed at her neck again, then reached up and started playing with her hair, looking deep in thought. After a few seconds she turned and crawled off, back to where she'd left the drawing she'd been working on. Makarov watched as she dug around in a pile of papers and quickly scurried back to where Makarov was sitting, clutching one of the papers carefully in one hand. She sat back down beside Makarov and sheepishly held the paper out to him, giving him a lopsided grin.
"To be honest, I knew you were coming," the child murmured, waving the paper as a gesture for Makarov to take it. He hesitated before doing so, carefully pulling the paper from her grasp. "Well, I didn't know until you were already here, but...I had dreams about you." The girl rested her hands in her lap, looking down. "I figured that you'd want that, now that you're here."
"...Uh-huh." Makarov closed his eyes and sighed before opening them again and looking down at the paper in his hands. He frowned, realizing it was blank, and flipped it over.
He didn't recognize what the drawing was supposed be at first—or, rather, who it was meant to be of. The person in the drawing had brown skin, maybe a shade darker than his own, with wild pitch black hair and green and blue eyes—
Green and blue—
After a moment, it clicked. The eyes, one blue and the other green. The shape of his eyes and the angle of his cheekbone, unmistakably Slavic and Tatar in appearance. The face was painted a bit darker than his actual taupe complexion, but it was close enough. The hair, perhaps too dark compared to his natural shade of dark brown, was styled like his, too.
"...This is me."
Makarov looked down at the girl, whose grin had widened. "Yes! I kept seeing you in my dreams, and I just...had to draw you, I guess! I was drawing that when you arrived, and I finished it the next morning." A pause. "...Do you like it?"
Makarov looked back down at the drawing in his hands, frowning. After a few seconds, he sighed, laying the drawing down on his lap and tilting his head back again.
"...It's nice."
"Great! I'm glad you like it." The girl clasped her hands together and fell silent, watching Makarov as he turned his gaze on the ceiling.
Makarov didn't understand any of this. He had no idea where he was, stuck in a room with some little girl who claimed to have dreams about him, after experiencing something that should have been his death but inexplicably wasn't...Makarov couldn't even begin to come up with an explanation for any of this, couldn't even begin to make sense of it. Part of him wanted to crawl back under the desk and go to sleep—
"Mister, what's your name?"
Makarov gazed back down at the girl. "My name?" When she hummed in affirmation and nodded, Makarov sighed and answered, "Vladimir. Vladimir Makarov." He paused, then asked. "And yours?"
The girl blinked, then gave a wide, toothy smile.
"Emily."
