Requested by CaliforniaStop. Thanks for the reviews, everyone, and thanks for reading! I hope this reads okay, I'll go over it again later.

Male Survivor

"He didn't tend to that cut, and now it festers."

The Empire would look back on The Second Immigrant District Riot, calling it "the worst riot in the history of Dunwall since the First Immigrant District Riot."

The history books will all say that it started with a little boy. He was lost and alone... and sick. Wandering the streets, not knowing where or even who he was. I never saw him. I hear from some that the boy's eyes bled and from others that they didn't. That he was just an innocent boy.

There is no debate about what happened to the boy, though. Two lower members of the Morlish mob, Calhoun and Kinney, spotted heading toward Morlish territory. No, he was not quite there, but those men swore up and down that the boy's eyes bled. So, they put a bullet between his eyes. The boy was eight years old. Serkonan. And little did Calhoun and Kinney know that there was a witness.

An old Serkonan woman by the name of Delfina - a witch, it was said by some, and an Oracle, by others - ran to the Serkonan mob, asking for coin in exchange for vital information.

"The boy, I saw," she said. "Oh, yes, yes, I was there. I can tell you what my eyes show me, but not without a price." They paid her ten coin, and she counted it greedily in her bony fingers.

"The boy," she started, her voice crackling, like a wood fire. "Little boy. Black hair, sun-touched skin, his eyes dark and red. He walked as something dead, mindless. No one could rouse him. Then, the two men, yes, the pale ones with dark hair and eyes like glowing moss. The men walked as those with minds clouded by spirits. Neither men nor boy were truly there. The men, they call him "little toaster".

" ' Little Toaster Boy,' they said. 'You drink too much? You smell like two toasters, fat ones, put together.' They laughed. Yes, but little boy, he don't answer. Instead, he bled. The two pale men look scared of boy. They told him to go away, but he walked and bled and walked and bled. The tall, pale man was the first to take out his weapon, for what else do men do when they are scared? It was the other who told him to shoot.

" ' Shoot the boy," he said. 'He will kill us all with the plague.' But the tall one didn't want to shoot, so the shorter one shot for him. But the boy, he walked and bled, walked and bled. The man shot again. Walk and bleed, walk and bleed. Again. Walk and bleed. The men, they were filled to the brim with horror at the walking dead boy who bled - "

"Wait," says one of the Serkonan gangsters. "You are blind, are you not?"

"I need not my eyes to see, dear," says Delfina. "And I need not tell you that eventually, the boy stopped walking and then stopped bleeding."

The gangsters were suspicious, but it was enough to know that the two Morlishmen had killed the boy. They got a group together to retaliate.

Some versions of the story say that the Serkonans were the ones to start slaughtering all the Morlish folk, and others say that they only killed the two men, and that it was the Morlish who slaughtered the Serkonans in retaliation. As the story spread, it was warped, and the Tyvians, believing the boy was one of them and that his attackers were either Morlish or Serkonan, attacked every non-Tyvian on sight. Some even believed that the Pandyssians had killed the boy, popping from the ground below, like worms, and using witchcraft on him, making him walk while he bled. It is said that Delfina was killed as well, though nobody knows which side did it. It would make more sense for the Morlish to kill her, but the way it was done was barbaric. Her eyes had been scooped out and taken. Well, by dawn the next day, the entire district had erupted.

I cannot confirm any of this, because I was not present for it. However, for the riot, not only was I present - I was far too close.

The beginning of the day did not start out well for me. I had been robbed by a child - a little boy - as I walked to my apartment. He was Morlish, same as me, but he carried a small pocket knife with him.

"Gimme yer money!" he demanded, flailing the knife in front of me. I did not know what else to do, so I cooperated with him.

"Okay," I said, slowly reaching for my pouch. I gave him the few coins that I had, but the boy was not satisfied.

"Gimme that, too," he said, pointing to my briefcase.

"This?" I asked him. "No, these are just - " The boy slashed at my arm with his knife, leaving a shallow cut on my hand. The blood slowly rose to the surface, making the small cut into a large, red line.

"Don't you say no to me," yelled the boy. "Now, gimme it!" I handed over my briefcase, and the boy backed away with his knife still pointed at me. Once he had walked far enough away from me, he turned and ran, taking my briefcase with him.

"Well, that's what I get for stealing," I said. I had just come back from the Beauregard Private Library, which was owned by a lord with a taste for math, science, and good literature, but it had recently been closed, due to an outbreak of the plague that was believed to have originated within its walls. Though the library was for members of the upper class only, it was boarded up and abandoned, which made it open to people like me. I had broken my way in, filling an old briefcase full of as many books on natural philosophy as I could.

My interest in natural philosophy was not just a habit. I had applied to the Academy of Natural Philosophy and taken an exam and was waiting to hear back from the school. If I made it into the Academy, I would be the first person from the Immigrant District to be accepted.

I lived in a cheap apartment in the Morlish-owned part of town. When I got home, I studied the cut on my hand. It wasn't too bad; all I had to do was wash it, disinfect it, and cover it. Five minutes at the most, but soon I became distracted by the sound of voices.

I could hear the shouting far off in the distance, but soon, it got closer, as did the smoke. I could hear footsteps in the hall.

"Get up and fight!" said the voice of a man with a very distinct Morlish accent. "Fight for your people! Let's show those toasters and ice-eaters what we think of them." The man knocked loudly at every door he passed. "Grab a weapon. Anything that'll do some damage. If you're old enough to throw a rock, then you can fight. Fight for your people!"

My heart beat in my chest, and I could feel the energy in the air. The shouting was getting closer; I could hear it through my window, now. Angry voices out for human blood. Savages and thieves, all of them.

Despite my new-found hatred of the Serkonans and the Tyvians, I could feel my legs shaking. Surely, I would die out there. Nobody would know if I just... stayed.

Sudden pounding at the door interrupted my thoughts, and I jumped. Surely, they couldn't be here yet.

"Hey" I heard, and upon recognizing the voice, I unbolted the door, swinging it open. My friends, Michael and Quinn stood in front of me, one equipped with a crowbar and the other with a fire poker.

"C'mon," Quinn said, waving me over. "Where's your weapon? Let's go." I searched the room, looking for a suitable weapon, making sure to quickly cover the books on my bed with a blanket before my friends entered. What could I use? A pipe from the sink? I figured that it probably wasn't a good idea to flood my apartment.

"Hold on a minute," Michael said, sighing. He returned with a weapon for me.

A wrench. Perfect.

"We would've missed the whole thing if we let you look for your own weapon," Michael said.

We headed outside, hardly making it off the stoop before running into a crowd.

"I guess we follow," Quinn said. So we followed.

I spied all the familiar shops along the main road, Morlish-owned. Most had closed their curtains and turned off their lights, and I found myself wondering if they had joined the crowd or if they were hiding.

"What's going on?" Quinn said. The crowd had stopped. "Come on." Quinn pushed his way through the crowd, Michael and I following. It seemed as though the sea of people would never end, but soon I saw a flash of red.

"The army," I said. I spied the City Watch behind the red uniformed men. An officer stood on a platform, speaking through a megaphone.

"You will stop this immediately, or we will be forced to intervene." The men stood and kneeled in neat lines, their pistols cocked. Their uniforms seemed almost clown-like with their bright colors among our browns and grays, but with the uniform came dignity. To them, we were nothing but animals.

Even though the officer was on a megaphone, it was still very difficult to hear him. More people noticed the uniformed men and started to throw rocks and bottles.

"Get outta here, ya dandies!" I heard one man shout behind me. "This ain't your place. Go back to the real city, wit' all your precious Gristians n' leave us be!"

"Fuck the Watch!" I heard someone else shout. I could see the men up front, eying each other nervously. Most of them were just boys, but all of my sympathy was lost the moment they started shooting, and soon I found myself holding off hordes of men, both uniformed and not.

Now, the screams were frantic, and I heard women as well.

"Get my Mikael!" I heard one cry. "Get my baby out of there!" Anger turned to fear, but then it turned to rage.

"Kill the City Watch!"

"Slice their fuckin' throats! Bash their brains in!"

The outrage grows.

"Take their fancy guns and helmets! Fight like men, ya fuckin' pussies!"

"Kill the City Watch!"

"Shut up, you fucking ice-eater!"

"Get the minnows!"

"You won't take me alive, you brutes! Cowards!"

Gunfire.

I was lost, and all I could do was survive. Pretty soon, I couldn't even tell who I was hitting anymore. Every face had warped into that of something monstrous. I beat them all down. There was blood everywhere. But then came the fire.

Precious tanks of whale oil fell from windows, hitting both cobblestone and people and then bursting, filling the air with bright, hot, light and black smoke. My ears rang. Clothing, hair, and bodies ignited, becoming torches, beacons of destruction. Fire climbed the walls around us, emptying the buildings of any who sought refuge in their locked apartments.

Now, we were all here.

It was so hot, but we all kept going. To stop was to die.

Bricks, stones, and glass flew, and the fire ate through everything and everyone. The screaming was the worst. The cries of those who burned. Blackened bodies engulfed in flame, dancing and rolling their way to the Void. But there was something wonderful to be found in the chaos. Suddenly, I was powerful. We were powerful.

"Hold him!" I heard, looking to my left to see a pair of Morlish boys attempting to hang a man from a streetlight. I lumbered over to them, dazed, and held the man by his lower torso, while the boys wrapped the rope around his neck.

The Serkonan blubbered and shouted.

"No, no! Please! My family needs me!"

I could smell him. He reeked of sweat and fear, the dirty toaster.

I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. A few Serkonans had come to put us down. They grabbed the boys first, slamming their heads into the cobblestone. I let go of the man, who now strangled from the rope. I think he reached out to the other toasters, but all they wanted was more blood, just as we did. They ignored him, stomping the boys into the ground, until their bones split and their heads cracked. Blood ran under their feet, snaking its way through the cracks in the cobblestone.

I brought my wrench down hard on one of the men's backs, and he turned on me, his nostrils flaring. He felt no pain. The toaster lunged, coming at me with a meat cleaver. I was no fool. I ran, looking for someone else - someone I could take down easily.

I found my friends in an alleyway.

"Get up!" I heard Quinn shout.

"I can't," said Michael. He groaned.

"One of those dirty toasters stabbed him. They stabbed him," Quinn cried.

"He was Tyvian, I think," said Michael.

"Whatever! They're all the same to me, and I'll kill them all."

Why were we angry again? I couldn't remember anymore, but they had stabbed my friend, and that was a good enough reason for me. Quinn and I joined the crowd, losing each other soon after.

I swung my arm in a feverish rage, not caring who I hit. All that mattered was that I was the victor. My victims, their teeth shattered, and their noses smashed, blood spurting from their nostrils, fell before me, defeated. I broke fingers and eye sockets, jaws and eardrums, faces and more faces, and bodies. Bodies everywhere, their insides exposed to the world. That was all they were. Bodies with organs-walking and talking meat. The slaughter was no different than any other.

A Lower Watch Guard pushed me aside. The crowd quickly surrounded them and attacked, giving a group of guards the chance to move past them without being assaulted. I watched them head toward an abandoned building.

The men broke into the building, holding their pistols out in front of them, and rushed inside. Soon, the building was aflame, but the guards remained inside. Some men and boys, wanting to take advantage of the moment, ran inside to loot the place, but one popped his head out, waving to another group and shouting. They all headed into the building and ran outside as soon as they stepped through the doorway, followed by more people.

Pandyssians poured from the building, each one singing in a chorus of screamers. Tall and short, male and female, found themselves in the middle of the fracas. They covered their bodies, their children's bodies, with their arms, pleading as the mob closed in on them. Some managed to find weapons, beating body after body with no rest in between. Others ran only to be dragged away by cold hands to be hanged, burned, or raped. Bodies flew through shop windows, falling to the floor with a confetti of glass shards. Some people fell, never to get back up as feet trampled them as though they were part of the ground. They waved their arms in the air, trying to get people to stop, but in a mob there is madness, and the arms were just another part of the scenery.

I know it sounds clichéd for me to say that the streets ran red with blood, but they truly did. Blood, among other things, coated the bottom of my boots and splattered my clothes. It fell from above and splashed from below, spraying to all lefts and rights. The more the blood ran, the more treacherous the streets became as people skidded over the slick ground, knowing that one tumble meant almost certain death.

I cannot even say all that I did. It couldn't have been me bashing and hacking and beating. I had never even dreamed that I would kill someone, but at that moment, it was simply living. It was life. My very existence was to harm as many as I could, their bodies bending and breaking in my wake. It was a full lifetime of bloodbath and screams.

After some time the noise died down, the fires burned out, and I found myself fighting the few people who didn't run once the crowd had thinned. My ears rang, and the noise of the riot continued to echo through my head. I stopped and looked around, dropping my wrench as soon as my heart slowed enough to stop my skin from buzzing. I panted, turning slowly to the right and then to the left. I don't know how I made it to my apartment building, but my walk was completely useless. The smoke-scorched brick invaded my vision and grew blurry. I couldn't think anymore. I collapsed to the ground right where I stood, not bothering to adjust my position and letting my body stay where it fell. Darkness fell upon me, and I fell into it with open arms.

I had a dream that I swam in a pool of rats, and when I woke up, the sensation lingered. I opened my eyes in time to see little pink feet scurry past me. The feet were connected to a large, black blob, and I let my vision adjust, sitting up.

Rats. They were everywhere, feasting on the bodies of the dead. I stood suddenly, brushing the surface of my blood-encrusted shirt with my hands. The vermin scurried from body to body, and more rushed from alleys and walls.

I jumped onto the stoop of my apartment building, letting the rats pass. I looked around, realizing that my home was completely unrecognizable. People had already started burning the bodies of the dead. Nobody even bothered to claim anyone. They were all just bodies.

My apartment building was destroyed. What remained of my books, gone - or at least I assumed they were gone. The building stank too much for me to enter it, and much of the wood had collapsed.

The bricks, cracked and darkened with ash, balanced unsteadily on top of each other, threatening to fall. The air stank of smoke and flesh, burnt crisp and black. It filled my nostrils and mouth, burning the back of my throat. I coughed, the bile in my empty stomach threatening to rise as it bubbled.

This was not the first time that the Immigrant District had seen a riot, but we recovered from that one.

I was only eight-years-old during the last riots. My mother and I hid underneath the kitchen table as the crowd fought, burned, and pillaged in the streets. This riot was much worse.

I stepped off the stoop, my feet sticking to the blood-stained road. There were still signs of life. Moaning, crying, coughing. The wails of men and women over the silence of the dead. Children wandered wet-eyed or lay on the filthy ground shrieking, lost and forgotten. Abandoned in the chaos.

Was this the end of the world? We were all ghosts, spirits drifting through the bloodstained streets and broken buildings, shattered with too many pieces missing to be put back together. Only the dead reminded us of the sickening reality of it all, and as the rats ate away at flesh, brain, and bone, scratching and biting at the meat, rare and red, the truth became frighteningly vivid.

I stared at them until my eyes were clear.

Where could I go? I couldn't stay there; that was clear. This was no place for anyone to live. I headed along the main street, my body aching and bruised, but I wanted to leave this place-it belonged to the Outsider, now.

Moving figures ahead caught my eye. They were dark blue and surprisingly clean. I wanted nothing to do with the Watch, but I had to pass them to leave. They put up wooden barriers, and I reached my hand out to push one aside.

"What the fuck d'you think you're doin'?" one of the guards asked me. I opened my mouth to answer, but he was not interested. "Your fuckin' idiot skull ain't goin' nowhere. 'Regent's orders." He put his hand on the hilt of his sword. "Turn the fuck around n' go back to your hole or whatever the fuck you live in."

I stared at him for a moment, but I was too exhausted to argue. I escaped from the riot unharmed, but the life seemed to have drained from me, and I backed away from them, turning into a nearby alley. Where do I go? As I stood there, clueless, the guards' conversation drifted toward me.

"Fuckin' minnows," I heard. "Cryin' about everythin'. The place don't look that much different from before." The two guards laughed. "All of these foreigners is dumb as shit. One lady came up to me this mornin', gesturin' n' tryin' to talk with me, but she didn't speak no Gristian." The other guard laughed again.

"Dumb foreigners." He shook his head.

"Well, I said, 'Look, lady. I don't speak whatever gibberish you're speakin', so if you want somethin', you better talk in Gristian.' Lady keeps sayin' nonsense, and I said. 'Lady, I don't speak - whatever the fuck you dirty savages speak!' Finallly, she leaves, cryin' just like all the other garbage in this dump. These rats, I tell ya - "

I'd heard enough of the conversation. I turned around to head back to my hole, but the conversation of my neighbors was no better than that of the City Watch.

"Did you hear that the poor old woman was murdered? It was probably those damn Pandyssians. I bet'cha they took that poor Oracle's eyes to use for their witchcraft and all their barbaric rituals. Why, if I see one of them running 'round here, I'll kill 'em. I don't care if it's a man, a woman, or a child. They're all the same to me, dirty kyukes."

It sounded so familiar to me.

We tried to kill the rats, but more kept appearing. At least they ate the bodies of the dead. The air was breathable again, but the stench of decay still lingered-an afterscent, hidden beneath the thick staleness of the sluggish breeze. The heat clung to my skin, and I sweated and panted, the moisture instantly evaporating into the air, leaving nothing but salt against my feverish flesh.

The plague hit shortly after the rats, and it hit us fast and hard. Most could not be bothered to help care for the sick, fearful of catching the plague themselves. We wore makeshift masks over our faces, our eyes never meeting. We wandered in tattered clothing, shoeless and sometimes even naked.

I abandoned my blood-soaked and shredded clothes, replacing them with all I could find.

I found a chest in a first-floor apartment. I had been looking for clothes all day, but most were too burnt to wear, and the others stank of smoke. The clothing inside the chest was perfectly preserved, as if it were meant just for me. Puffy white pants with large red polka-dots, and an oversized bright purple jacket with soft, cloth shoes-one blue and one yellow.

"The Gillespie Trio," the trunk read on the top. "Auguste." I did not know what it meant, but I looked like a clown.

They were the only clothes I could find, though. So, I wore them.

Weeks passed with coughing and moaning echoing through the streets, and soon I started to come across weepers. Luckily, they were usually only one or two.

I needed food, but mostly I settled for eating rats, hoping that I didn't get the plague. My hand had started to hurt, but I paid it no mind. It swelled and oozed, and soon I had red streaks on my skin. But what was I to do? At least it wasn't the plague. Nothing was worse than the plague. I would be fine.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of shouting. Two women were having an argument.

"Get away from him!" I heard. I finally found the two women in a burnt-out building, sitting by a child, who I assumed had the plague.

One of the women was Morlish, and she eyed me as I entered.

"Finally, someone more civilized. Watch her for me. Make sure she doesn't poison my son." The woman stood, leaving the building.

"Sit," I heard the other woman say, and I sat on the other side of the boy, making sure my mask was up. I faced a plump Serkonan woman. She had placed a towel over the boy's forehead. "I am Speranza. Before this I was a nurse, so I thought I'd help the woman with her son. She doesn't trust me, though." The woman looked down, avoiding eye contact and focusing on the boy instead. "He will die," she told me.

"I know," I replied. "Don't they all?" Speranza stood.

"Yes, they do. I am finished here. There is no use in helping this woman."

"But - " I started. Speranza turned away, walking from the building and leaving me with the boy. She passed by the Morlish woman on her way out, and neither said anything, ignoring each others' presence. The Morlish woman sat across from me.

"My name is Eleanor Ryan," she said. "This is my son, Christopher." I looked down at the boy. His skin had started to turn gray, and already he had lost most of his hair. He coughed.

"Eleanor - "

"That's Mrs. Ryan to you," she snapped, her eyes narrowing. She turned to look outside in the direction Speranza had gone. "Stupid toaster. Doesn't know what she's talking about at all," grumbled Mrs. Ryan. "What was I thinking? She's probably the one who made him worse! He's only gotten worse since she's been taking care of him." Mrs. Ryan spread a fresh washcloth over the boy's forehead. "She's not getting anywhere near him, anymore."

Eventually night came, and I fell asleep near the boy, leaving Mrs. Ryan to care for him. By morning Speranza had returned, and the two women had moved to the street, leaving me alone with Christopher.

Was I supposed to check on him or something? I looked at the boy. He was still gray and hairless. I looked around, eyeing the two women. They seemed to be arguing about something, so I went to get a closer look.

"I had a son, too." I heard. "I know what it is like to be helpless as he lies sick and dying." Speranza stepped toward to Mrs. Ryan.

"You stay away, you - you dirty, evil, toaster! You're a witch. That's what you are - a witch!" Mrs. Ryan pointed at Speranza accusingly. "You've cursed him, you evil thing! Get out!"

"Ms. Ryan, please, you're not thinking clear - " I started, trying to calm the woman.

"And you too, you piece of shit. If you're going to defend that cursed toaster, then you're just as bad. Both of you, get away, now! I don't want you anywhere near my son!" Mrs. Ryan took her knife from the floor, brandishing it clumsily. I was the first to turn away, walking hurriedly down the street and away from the crazy woman.

I had nowhere to go, and so I stopped once Mrs. Ryan was out of sight. Eventually, Speranza caught up to me.

"Thank you," she said, though it seemed more out of duty than actual gratitude. She started to walk away, but turned back around after a few steps, looking me up and down. "Some are getting out through the sewers," she said, glaring at me suspiciously. She turned away again, running from me and never looking back.

"Wait!" I cried. "Please? Just take a look at my - " It was no use. The woman disappeared into an alley, and once again, I was alone.

My entire arm ached now, but if I was able to get out, I would be able to find a doctor. But there was no way the City Watch was ever going to let any of us leave.

They left us here to rot. Quarantined us in our own broken homes, leaving us to feed off of rats and flesh as the food ran out.

The streets had turned a dark brown and had a mud-like substance over them, in some places thin and chalky and in others, clotted and spongy.

To stay was to die. I had not met another person without the plague since Mrs. Ryan and Speranza, and I did not expect to. Even the buildings seemed to be infected as coughing cascaded from their many windows, and the moaning started as well.

I delayed my trip through the sewers for another few days. I had become feverish. Was it the plague or my arm? I didn't know. All I wanted to do was lie down in the streets and die, but I knew that if I was going to be cured, I had to get to the outside.

The plague had died down, the coughing becoming less frequent. The moans of the sick were replaced by the moans of weepers.

Then, one day I awoke to complete silence. There was no more chaos, no more moaning, no more crying. Still, I knew I had to go. I forced myself to stand and to walk, despite my fever, and found my way into the sewers.

Luckily, it seemed to be lit by lamps from people who had already traveled through the tunnels. I followed the lanterns, losing track of any time, just forcing myself to walk. Was it nighttime, yet? I couldn't tell.

Just keep walking, I told myself. Every place seemed to look the same, and I found that my mind would sometimes leave me, and I would awaken, still walking, though I had no memory of the trip.

I truly believed that there was no danger as I made my way through the cramped tunnels, but then they arrived. Suddenly lucid, my ears perked.

It was the buzzing I heard first. It was thick and sharp, each short buzz overlapping the other until the air seemed to vibrate. It tingled my skin. Footsteps and groans were next. Harsh, labored breaths. I was frozen as they approached, the sounds growing louder and echoing throughout the arched chambers of the sewers. Their feet squished and shliped, squished and shliped on the slime-covered ground.

I was wasting time. I knew that if I let them get too close, they would cut off my path, forcing me to navigate blindly through the tunnels, with their turns and twists, but all my body wanted to do is run. Go back the way I came and die as the others died.

Because if they got me, I will be torn apart. Ripped open and gutted, my limbs torn from me, as though I were a roast chicken. They would throw my parts on the ground and trample them, until they were nothing but rotting, bloody chunks, unrecognizable among the dead and the dying and the stink of the sewers.

I needed to move. Fast.

The round tunnel made it almost impossible for me to move silently, so I ran-as fast as I dared. The ground was slick, and I nearly fell more than a few times, my fingers clinging to the cracks in the bricks with a grip I never thought I had.

I heard their bodies moving, now, and the shuffling of their clothes and they pushed past one another. They were alive as ever and cried as though they wished they were dead. I know I sure did.

I reached an intersection, one tunnel leading to the right, and the other going forward. I took a step, preparing to continue, but a figure emerged from the shadows. Its eyes were red and dripping, and they widened upon noticing my presence. The weeper reached out for me, grabbing at my clothes and then vomiting black sludge.

Panic overtook me, and I pushed her away.

A barbaric sound emerged from my throat, and I pushed through the accumulating crowd of weepers. They shrieked and moaned as they saw me, clawing at my clothes and skin, tearing through fabric and flesh.

I would not be the roast chicken. Or a raw, bloody, chicken for that matter.

They tore what was left of my clown suit away, and I crawled between their legs, avoiding their greedy hands. I was lost in a tangle of limbs, blood and vomit dripping from above and flies swarming around me. I clawed at one's leg, and the flesh, rotten and gray, peeled away easily. I gagged, holding back the bile rising in my throat and pushed ahead, even as my skin opened as it was scratched and pulled away.

"No, no, no," I heard myself breathe. I could see light, and I headed toward it, crawling on my naked belly, through the weepers. The ones who stepped on me fell and then grabbed at my legs, and I kicked at them, tripping more weepers in the process. Soon, they were a confused mess, tangled under legs and bodies, and this was my chance. I forced myself to stand and then ran. I could hear some of them yelling after me, but they were lost in the crowd.

I ran and ran, afraid to stop until there was a gate behind me. It was only when I fell that I realized that the weepers were long gone. I panted, lying on the filthy stone. My back burned, I was covered in vomit and blood, and I was naked. I wiped the vomit away, noting the larva wriggling in the thick, black liquid.

I had to have been infected by that point. I had to have the plague.

"Dammit," I heard myself say. "Dammit!" My eyes grew hot and moist, but I held the tears in. I could feel the frustration closing in, but I was so close. At least I would not have to die in there.

The surface was a welcome sight, and I breathed in the air of Dunwall. It had a stench of a different kind, but it was the stench of home.

I did not know the neighborhood, and it was mostly abandoned. It seemed the plague found its way there. I found some weeper bodies among the dead wrapped in sheets, but there did not seem to be any danger there.

I found a dead counter among the alleys of the winding slum, and he took me to his officer.

"Well, what is this?" the Officer jeered. He laughed openly, the two guards behind him guffawing as well. "It's naked and covered in filth." He turned to the dead counter. "You could've just taken it to the slaughterhouse. The City Watch doesn't usually deal with escaped animals." The Officer and the guards laughed again, but I could not find it in myself to be angry or even embarrassed. I was too exhausted, though I could still hang my head in shame.

"Here ya go, fella," one of the guards said, lumbering forward and ripping the cap off the dead counter's head. He threw it at me. I stared as it hit the muddy ground.

"Pick it up," said the Officer. "I can't have you corrupting the innocent girls on the way to the office." I took the hat, covering myself with it the best I could. The guards burst into laughter this time, trailing behind me as I followed the Officer.

I am in a cage, as I have been for the past month. The City Watch told me that they would take me to a doctor and then to Coldridge Prison, but I am still here in a small cage in one of the many offices of the City Watch.

The guards are all sick, and most have disappeared, leaving the Officer and I.

"Get out," he says, coughing as he opens my cage. "Just - just get out of here." He wheezes, leaning back against the wall, and I can see that his skin is pale and gray.

But I don't need to be told twice. I leave.

I am free again, and I nearly laugh, because I know it is a lie. I put my hand to my chest and grimace. It is spongy and smells of puss. And it hurts.

The infection spreads, and the skin on my body rots. Where there only used to be a cut, there is now black, wrinkled flesh in its place, surrounded by red and brown spots, festering away.

Right. It will all be okay.

I am as free as I will ever be.

The powdery white face of the Outsider flashes before my eyes, and I take my final bow.

The Outsider sits back and laughs, applauding us all on a performance well-done.