The batarians told us what would come to pass. The Council's apology. The opening of trade routes. Gradual assimilation. They propped up the ruins of Shanxi with steel and bone, planted the dead in gold-trimmed coffins, paid for the Ecclesiarchy. But I didn't see anyone coming back to life because of the turians' forced apology. And I hadn't seen enough turians die just yet.
Balak smiled when I told him that. He took us to places we could make that a reality.
The Spymaster was quick to get ahold of us, once the second year was past and space no longer looked as foreign, empty, and frozen. We were on a distant world then, only four of us, a long way from familiar shores. She told us we would have a chance to serve the Empire. We would have a steady stream of recruits, if we wanted them, disillusioned Royal Marines and intelligence personnel who were willing to go off the books to get things done.
We would even be able to go home.
That woman took a very … secular approach to things. The salarians had their own agents marked by the Outsider. The Terminus was known to house a few. We would need something of our own. The agreement made sense. And through her, other contacts cropped up. But never the High Overseer, and it was not hard to see why. Day by day, more turians appeared in the abbeys. Our abbeys. They preached to our masses. Occasionally, we even preached to theirs. Day by day, the sacrifices made by our brothers who stood at Shanxi looked to be less and less meaningful.
They called us the Hounds of the Terminus, a name I encouraged in Valor's memory. We could not be hidden from. We could not be fought off. We saw and heard everything.
Oleg took me aside one day, the old scar twitching as he furrowed his brow.
"Our numbers swell, and the bodies stack up," he said, gesturing with a sleeve still decorated in the golden patterns of the Overseers. "Where do you see this going, Jack?"
"Kill those who have it coming," I replied, clenching a gloved fist. "Kill for the Empire. Only for good reason. Put the Outsider's mark to good use." I didn't tell him that, as time went on, I considered large sums of money to be a good enough reason. Our numbers increased yearly. And the Spymaster could not afford to send too much our way. Meanwhile, the batarians proved consistently overgenerous while their contracts spawned a considerable amount of catharsis.
As for the Outsider, he said nothing. My dreams are nothing more than heavy smoke, echoing with the soft moans of distant whale song.
It is no matter. We do not need him anymore.
Jack's eye opened to bright grey skies. The metal paneling slid away above him, revealing the churning overhead smog, lit by a blinding white sun. For a moment, he forgot where he was, his mind sliding back to the alleys of Dunwall as a child, back to Whitecliff, then the abbey, then countless other worlds he had awoken drenched in sweat with a pounding head … before finally jolting back here, now.
Muscle memory took hold before anything else, the left hand sweeping before his twitching eyelids before he could fully grasp his surroundings. At once the world pulsed with blue light, the walls becoming transparent while the tubes and wiring within them glistened like worms after a heavy rain. Jack's head turned, his eyes piercing through wood, steel, and flesh … not that there was any flesh. His VI clicked and whirred, its form silhouetted in dull purple, waiting for his command. Jack sighed and let the vision fade, his sight slipping into mundanity once more.
"Outie, time."
"Seven forty-nine, Korlus standard, western hemisphere, section three." The VI chirped and hummed, its clockwork grinding against itself. It was easy to forget that, under the glowing orange lines, this little floating machine consisted mostly of exposed wiring and twisting gears. "Three messages."
"From?"
Outie clicked and whirred. "I have already decrypted all messages. Messages left by: Miranda Lawson. Reina Azerah. Ka'hairal Balak."
Jack grunted in surprise. "Balak? It's been a while." He rose from his bed, head in hands, wiping the sleep from his eyes. He took a moment to stare at the mark on his left hand, still clear and crisp as the day it had been burned into him. He stood and waved a hand. "Play first message."
"Jack, it's Miranda." Jack rolled his eyes at this. Like I couldn't tell. He descended the small set of stairs from his bed and walked to his cupboards with purpose, keeping an ear out even as hands sped by hunger made their rounds for the tins and small packets. "Job went well, no collateral. That's the last pro-Council Morleyan holdout dealt with. Made sure it looks deniable, in case your spymaster takes offense." Jack snorted at that, hands wrestling with a can opener as it slowly wrested open the tin of jellied eels. They fell into the waiting wooden bowl with a morose splat. A sprinkling of salt followed.
"I'm back planetside, if you want to hear more." Translated: tell you what a clever girl you are, and how lucky we are to have you. Jack's lips grew thin. She was always hungry for approval, despite so often being a worthy recipient of it. The tap squeaked as he poured himself a cup of water, watching the liquid run into the cup, and then over and into the sink.
"One more thing: we have a new recruit, fresh out of the Corsairs. Claims to have originally been a Royal Marine, and his story checked out. Made his way here, only got stopped by the moat. Definite potential, once the arrogance is worn out. If he survives. Stop by Oleg when you get a chance. We've tied him up for the time being."
"Hmm." Corsairs. Drawn a few recruits from there. He took a sip from the cup as he planted the quivering bowl of eels on to the bare wooden table. No guarantee he won't end up like so many others, though. Bleeding out on the cold stone floor. Like Whitecliff … but that was not worth remembering. Not anymore. Any similarities between the training of the Hounds and Overseers were entirely coincidental.
"I have written out a report as well, for your perusal, and would be happy to debrief you further in person. On a final note, I will say that your opinions on chandeliers are entirely correct, and if any more bloody noblemen install them in their homes, they are asking for it. I will see you soon." Rich, coming from the daughter of a Duke. Jack sucked down another jellied eel, wiping some of the juices from his lips with a bare wrist.
"Let's hear what the spymaster has to say."
"Jack: I know that was you." A pang in the stomach. Jack shut his eyes and nodded. Doesn't miss a trick, does she? "Three members of parliament in a year, Jack? People have noticed. They've noticed that publicly supporting the Council, or any of their positions, tends to get them killed." Only the Shanxi apologists. But I'm sure you'll gloss over that, won't you?
"The situation is escalating, Jack. Dunwall still sits firmly on the side of free trade and regulation of Outsider artifacts – in other words, the Council's position – but the countryside and colonies are getting restless. Every time you press a little more firmly on your end of the scales, you risk tipping the whole thing over. Whoever is giving you these commissions, start turning them down. Immediately. This is your one warning."
The message cut off sharply with a snap of static, making the back of Jack's neck prickle. Problematic. If there was one person in the Empire who could almost certainly make good on a threat to him, it would be the Spymaster. She didn't know where on Korlus they were based … but she likely had a damn good idea. May have to lay low for a time. Sharpen our knives on Terminus necks. It wasn't like there was ever a shortage of lowlifes with prices on their heads, anyway.
"Last message."
"Jack. We need to talk. In person." Jack's eyebrows raised at this, and he turned to face the floating machine as the message went on. "Korlus. I will be there at seven in the evening. Send a confirmation if we can use your lodgings. I can think of no place more secure – other than the base itself, which I know is out of the question. Look forward to seeing you soon, kredum."
"Told him not to call me that…" But it was an old, well-worn protest, devoid of substance at this point. Jack stared at Outie thoughtfully. "Send a confirmation. Encrypted. And send word ahead to the Hounds. Be there in about an hour." He paused. "Tell them to try not to kill the recruit before I get there."
"Acknowledged." Outie's clockwork whirred and ground. "Messages sent. Will there be anything else?"
"Keep scanning the extranet." Jack waved one hand while the other lifted the last of the eels into his mouth. "That will be all." Jack rose and deposited his fork and bowl in the sink. He turned away … only for his shoulders to lower at the memory of a switch across his lower back. He returned to the sink and dutifully washed them with a thinning bar of soap. Some lessons never fade … particularly those born of pain. He returned up the stairs with his ears slightly burning, as if the eyes of Proctor Thurman were still on him.
The heat felt particularly intense today, even half-naked as Jack was. He ordered the overhead shutters closed and pulled the footlocker from under his bed. The metal clanked and shuddered from above, and the harsh light faded from around the bed. From under it, he pulled the footlocker loose. It opened with a clunk.
Every day, a little more worn. Jack pulled his sabre from its scabbard, lips twitching at its surface. Despite being pitted and scarred with countless scratches and despite its hilt showing fingerprints now, no matter how much Jack cleaned it, the blade still gleamed dully in the muted half-light, its edge still keen. The old Overseer runes running up and down the blade, however, were now only barely visible. Fifteen years left its mark, one way or another, despite one's best efforts. Jack set the blade aside with a sigh, hands reaching inside the footlocker for the clothes chosen the day previous; the same as always.
To the laymen it was difficult to recognize that a whaler's gear was a functional hardsuit, but what business did whalers have in space if they could not survive within it for a time? The leather was only a decoration over the far more reliable (and expensive) composite materials that sealed its wearer against the hazards of space. And blood can be cleaned from both just fine. Made sense. Jack had seen how much blood whales contained.
The belt and boots came on second-to-last, locking into place on the suit. The sword came on over it, the scabbard bouncing neatly against Jack's left thigh. That left just the mask. He took it with him to the mirror bolted haphazardly to the wall across from his bed.
"The sword ages with me." It wasn't the first time Jack had mused that. Just as the metal accumulated scars and lost its definition, so too did its owner. Old cuts that refused to fully fade, changing from angry red to sullen pink. Hair that had yet to thin, but nevertheless had grayed to the point Jack no longer recognized it. But the eyes…
It must have been a slow thing. He could remember each scar and the first of the gray hairs washing down the drain, but the steady pollution of his vision must have been deadly slow to creep up on him as it once did. Was there a day when he awoke to find his old eyes steadily accumulating that unnatural color? To find the tint of brilliant aqua in the natural dull brown?
Jack blinked. The room dimmed slightly in the half-instant before his eyes opened again. Everything else about Jack faded. But not the blue fire dancing within his sockets. He pulled the mask over his face, feeling a strange mix of sorrow and pride. It marked him as special. It inspired fear in the hearts and minds of friend and foe alike.
It meant he could never be in public without covering his eyes in some fashion. A whaler stared back at him from the mirror.
"Outie, I'm gone. Ping me if anything else comes up."
"Yes, Jack."
Jack turned from his own image and proceeded down the stairs once more and unbolted a window. A light and foul-smelling wind blew in as he flung it open. Korlus, dull and gray and rotten, stared back at him, an ocean of rusting moldering trash waiting to be waded into. Jack clenched his fist.
There was a reason Balak considered his small apartment to be secure. Jack's quarters were unique in that Jack never used a front door, because he didn't have one. Or any door for that matter. He did, however, have a window large enough for a man to step through, if he were able to scale a sheer and grimy stone wall of sixty feet.
Jack released his grip and vanished, leaving only the faint scent of smoke and sweat in his wake. The VI dutifully closed the window behind him.
Korlus, sometimes known as the garbage heap of the galaxy. Jack had heard it said one could track the galactic development of spacefaring vessels by simply visiting a scrap heap and walking from one end of it to the other. The bulk of the planet's landmass these days was little more than a vast graveyard for the galaxy's ships of yesterday, felled either by misfortune or irrelevancy. Here, Jack did not blink from balcony to balcony as he would on another planet of equal population, but rather from the pitted red hulls of long dead vessels, the soles of his boots scraping against the floor as he maintained his pace.
To be fair to his planet of residence, however, Korlus was not merely known for its mounds of scrap that stretched into the horizon. It was also infamous for its preposterous rate of offworlder murder, a statistic Jack would sheepishly admit he contributed to on occasion. It was a grim, wasted world, whose denizens were tight-lipped and quick to anger, even more so than the usual Terminus rabble. When Balak had first introduced Jack to it many years ago, his response had been disgust.
Jack's response was still disgust. But he recognized the value of basing his people in such a location. And the smell was not so bad, when one got used to it.
The noses of three ships stretched up into the gray skies, leaning against one another as if it were some ghastly attempt at creating a pyramid through scrap. Whether placed there by accident, by some ancient and long-unheeded garbage pileup protocol, or indeed deliberately as some part of art piece, Jack could not see, but it was the only real landmark among the irradiated trash for quite some miles. A steaming river of sludge ringed the base of the three craft. What ground did exist rose and fell unevenly, studded continuously by pieces of rebar and jagged pieces of metal. A hazardous place to walk.
Jack raised his left hand and clenched it, letting the mark burn high. From high above, a figure, their mottled grey and brown attire perfectly camouflaging them against the backdrop of ruined metal, nodded and retreated back into the recesses of the makeshift tower. Jack let the magic flow through him, and the rust particles halted their course in midair as he prepared to blink. He released his grip, and strolled without pause into the crack between the former salarian freighter, Montovesto, and the long derelict volus penitence ship, Greed's Folly.
Inside the crush of vessels revealed the years long work of the Hounds. Rope bridges crossed between the three ships at the center, suspended by steel pegs that had no difficulty in puncturing the ancient metal. Some led to the ship interiors, while others led to ladders that could be scaled to find entrance elsewhere. Small balconies swayed in the light breeze, lashed to the ships by yet more rope. Some bore the occasional shelter where Hounds might stand under to avoid the harshness of the Korlus sun while on watch. In the center of the crush of three ships, behind a half-hearted safety railing erected at Oleg's insistence, two lengthy chains swung in the emptiness. Below could be heard the clatter of swords, the light echoes of laughter.
"Master." One of his Hounds nodded to Jack from above, and Jack returned the gesture. Another watched from a balcony across from him. When their gaze met, the Hound crossed his left arm across his chest and straightened his back before vanishing into smoke to resume his patrol. All seems to be in order. Jack strode to the railing and looked down.
Someone unfamiliar with the base and possessed of an imagination might have looked down and proclaimed with astonishment that they had built a small settlement underground. The truth was less exciting. For one, their numbers were barely thirty, which really was not much of a settlement. For another, they had not been the ones to dig at the earth and turn these ships into a base of operations. Eclipse had been here before them before abandoning the planet a few years back, and had carved out a good amount of space for themselves. For three, few actually lived here for any real length of time; everyone had their offworld assignments and others preferred the privacy of their own quarters.
Nevertheless, the railings, the balconies, the ropes and ladders, those were all the result of Hounds' work. Mostly Jack, Miranda, Banes, and Oleg, truth be told, but others had played their part over the years. Jack breathed in the familiar scents of sweat, leather, and incense, and smiled under the mask. The clash of steel on steel rang out from below – two Hounds testing their mettle against one another, left hand folded behind their back while the right sent their blades flicking out. Sparks flew from one particularly spirited collision, sending a few muffled gasps followed by quiet laughter from onlookers.
With another hushed breath, Jack focused his energy on the bottom of the pit, appearing next to an initiate in purple leather in a puff of unnatural smoke. The sparring Hounds continued, oblivious, and no one on the ground turned to see him.
"Leng." Kai Leng started at this, head jerking to face Jack's. Jack smiled at his obvious annoyance and confusion. The longer they bore Jack's mark, the more easily he could tell them apart, just by … looking. The masks meant nothing. He would be able to recognize Miranda from several miles standing atop a mountain these days. "Hope you didn't rough up our Corsair friend."
"Nothing that won't heal." Leng at least had the good grace to sound defensive rather than smug. One of the two sparring Hounds turned to face Jack, doubtlessly gaping underneath the mask, only to be clouted about the face by his opponent's fist, sending up a roar of laughter from the onlookers above. The Hound sprawled on all fours, panting, before being helped up by his opponent. A lesson there. Do not forget it. In a true fight, being distracted in such a manner would mean maiming or death.
Others gathered around Jack and Leng while the fighters adjourned, their arms folded behind their backs. Most bore the purples of advanced service. Save two. Miranda stood flanked by two purple Hounds, both of whom dwarfed her slight figure. Oleg watched from a balcony above, frowning. He alone did not wear a mask. Leng jerked a thumb towards Miranda. "She's the one who told me to do it."
"I should have emphasized that restraining someone does not always require blows to the face." Miranda was smirking under her mask. Jack could practically hear it. "I forgot who I was dealing with. Allow me to emphasize this: trying to pass off your brutish incompetence to my leadership, Leng, is an unwise career choice."
"Heh." Leng shrugged amiably. "You chose a hammer for needlework. Not the hammer's fault if things get broken."
"He's not the first to bleed a little to get here." All fell silent at Jack's words, but Jack waved this off. "I'm not interested in casting blame for some cuts and bruises, so long as they heal." He turned to Miranda. "Take me to him. And Oleg! I want you with us."
"Of course, Jack." Oleg pushed himself from the railing above and vanished. The other Hounds dispersed, Leng casting a single lingering look back at Miranda as he slouched off. Miranda and Jack departed side by side for the dirt ramp downwards, where the air grew a little colder, a little less full of foul stench.
"Banes isn't back yet," Miranda said by means of introduction. "Fincher and Bletchley are still stuck on the Citadel waiting for their target, and Irwin was turned away from Omega. One of Aria's people met him at the hangar and told him Hounds weren't welcome there anymore."
"Unfortunate." Truth be told, it was only a matter of time. People marked by the Outsider were some of the few people Aria could not personally best in combat. Historically, she had never liked letting them run loose. "And your mission? Another chandelier kill?"
Miranda sniffed. "Leng was right. They make quite the mess. Some will no doubt suspect foul play, but I left no evidence." Her right hand, seemingly unconsciously, felt for her left, stroking where his faint mark could be found under the leather of her glove. "I am sure of it."
"Azerah still knows it was us." Jack raised a hand and waited. A few moments later, Oleg came shuffling into the tunnel, wiping his nose. He nodded to Jack. "Oleg. Got a call from the Royal Spymaster."
"New job?" Oleg said this as if he knew this was a fool's hope. Jack shook his head.
"A warning. That's the last hit we're doing in the Empire for a while, let alone Dunwall. She fears further political destabilization."
"She would be the expert on that." Jack frowned at this. He thought he detected a faint hint of … approval in his tone. "At least she was kind enough to send us another recruit. It's been a while."
"We're not exactly hurting for agents." Jack kept his tone even. "While another set of hands is usually welcome, our current numbers have been sufficient."
Oleg did not reply. For a few moments, the only sound was that of boots on rough soil.
"Balak sent word." Jack noted as Oleg's boots scuffed against the soil in surprise. "I'll be seeing him later today. Not here, of course."
"Of course." Miranda sniffed. "I do not remember the last batarian job fondly. They seem to equate the Outsider's mark with being invincible." Again, she absentmindedly rubbed her left hand.
"They always pay well, and if we owe anyone anything, we owe Balak and his people our freedom." That had been the line, that had always been the line. "I'll be sure to pass on whatever he says … and if I vanish, you will know who to blame."
"The Hegemony keeps trying to get chummy with the Empire." Oleg looked to Jack, the frown on his face making him look even more wrinkled than usual. "If I had to hazard a guess, they will be coming to blows with Azerah sooner or later, if they haven't already. If they give us a job in Dunwall, Jack, what will you tell them?"
"That I am a creature of the Empire, first and foremost." Jack frowned. Up ahead, several dull cells ringed by thick metal bars waited for them, their appearance heralded by a faint stench of urine. "I do not serve their interests, or anyone's interests, before that of our people's." They stopped before the cells. A man in a somewhat soiled whaler's suit glared blearily up at them from the leftmost corner of the back of his cell. The rightmost featured a large patch of moisture.
"I was told to come here," he stated without emotion. "I was told I could make a difference, free from any constraint of bureaucracy … of oversight."
"You were not the first. And you heard correctly." Jack stepped forward, folding his arms and looking down at this Royal Marine, this Corsair who would be a Hound. "And you even came dressed appropriately."
"People don't look twice at you if you wear a whaler's getup." Jack nodded at this in agreement. Half of the people who came this far made the mistake of making the trip in their dress blues in order to make an impression. More often than not, this meant they were tailed by about five or six different groups who took an intense interest in just why a lone officer of the Empire would bother to dress up for a hike in the middle of a stinking ship graveyard.
The cleanup was always messy. And this one spared me the trouble.
Jack took another look at the man. His features were Serkonan, probably from around Karnaca. A short layer of thin black hair covered his scalp and chin, and from what Jack could make out through the mostly shapeless clothing, his arms and legs were thick with muscle. To be expected.
"You've come this far." Jack glanced to Miranda, who shrugged, and Oleg, who nodded. "Hmph. We might have uses for you. But let me make this clear." Jack leaned in, the acid stench of urine growing stronger as he did so. "Anyone they send here is considered useful, but expendable. No one will come looking if we find you more a hindrance than a help … and we cannot let word of this place escape under any circumstances. Do you understand me?"
"What do you think they told me in the Corsairs?" The prisoner stood to his full height, just past Jack's own. "I did not come here to fail."
"Then let us see what you can do."
Miranda undid the bolts and slid the bar across the door. The prisoner staggered out, limbs clearly a little stiff. Jack motioned for him to follow and did not turn to check if he complied. Miranda and Oleg brought up the rear, hands likely on their hilts.
"Where I came from, my superiors were in the habit of killing those who could not meet their lofty expectations." Jack spoke clearly, voice bouncing in the tunnel. "If the fear of death could not spur us to greater heights, then what would? All of the fat was cut away, leaving only raw muscle and bone. As a marine and Corsair, I am sure you understand."
They emerged into the chamber proper. The circle where the two Hounds once sparred lay empty. From above, Hounds gathered and watched at the railing, while others hastily cottoned on to what was happening and began forming a ring around the center of the circle.
"The training you will undertake here is of a different nature." Jack stood in the center of the circle and turned to the Serkonan, who did not flinch. "You know how to fight. Perhaps even how to kill. That is good. But there are forces beyond flesh and steel." Jack nodded to Oleg, who stepped forward, pulling his blade free. "I must first see that you have mastered the mundane before gifting you those forces."
The Serkonan stared with narrowed eyes at Jack, before starting as another sword was shoved roughly in his direction. He took it hesitantly, feeling the weight and heft of the blade.
"You will face Oleg, and you will draw blood. Then your training will continue." Jack stepped backward. The other waiting Hounds parted wordlessly, leaving space for him in the circle. "You will do this, or you will die. And you will not be the first. For every one of us that stands here, two do not. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir." Jack wrinkled his nose at this. The Serkonan drew his blade up, letting it rest vertically before his face before swishing it downward in an impressive salute. Oleg nodded in approval before returning the gesture.
The two stood roughly ten feet apart. The Hounds watched, expressions impossible to discern beneath the masks. No doubt they all recalled their own duels with Oleg, Miranda, or Banes. A few, an unlucky few, could even recall a duel with Jack himself, when the other three were unavailable. An old scar on Jack's shoulder twinged at the thought. Getting slower. Oleg, too. The much younger man readied himself, and Jack thought he heard Oleg sigh.
"To Oleg's first blood, or your death. No shields." Jack raised his arms. "Begin."
Oleg lunged forward with a speed even Jack found surprising. The Serkonan's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but his blade was even faster, meeting Oleg's in a sudden scream of metal. The blades interlocked, and the Serkonan surged forward, shoulders first, throwing Oleg backwards. The Hounds remained silent, not budging even as Oleg almost careened into them. He straightened just in time to sidestep the Serkonan's own heavy blow, his blade flicking out to graze his opponent's right arm. The Serkonan grunted, his arm weeping red, but he did not falter. The two circled, now, blades raised.
Oleg had once asked what would happen if an initiate inadvertently killed one of them in this opening duel.
"Then clearly we would have had no further use for you," Jack had replied, and everyone present had agreed that was only fair. Still, Jack could not help but feel a stab in his gut as he watched Oleg's arms, the way they slightly trembled with exertion. The Serkonan had the gift of youth, and it was not as if the Corsairs were gentle with their own recruits. Despite being wounded, the young soldier's own grip remained rock steady, and his eyes remained full of determination, not fear.
The Serkonan took the first step forward, blade flicking out, testing the waters. Oleg retreated, footwork impeccable as always, but when the Corsair advanced greedily, Oleg did not punish him for the lost ground. Oleg's back now brushed the edge of his peers, and he circled away from the unflinching edges of the ring, trying to find some room. The Corsair advanced again, the blade flashing. Once more, steel met steel, and Oleg gasped at his opponent's strength.
The Corsair kept swinging, his face stuck somewhere between a wolfish grin and a pained grimace, his arm leaking fluid all the while. Oleg ducked some blows, sidestepped others, and blocked the few that came too close. Sweat flowed freely from the Corsair's face, but he did not slow. He left patches of red in the dust wherever he walked, but seemed to pay the wound little mind. Oleg, meanwhile, labored and gasped whenever their blades met, and the shuffling of his feet grew a little less certain with each passing moment. Still, the Corsair had not managed to lay a single cut on him, and the frustration clearly mounted every time the air whistled with a blow unstruck. The Corsair muttered strange curses under his breath as his blade failed to connect yet again.
With a strangled cry, the Corsair took a leap forward, blade blurring. As if expecting this, Oleg stepped to the side surprisingly nimbly, not even flinching as the Corsair's blade came slicing up in a swift arc as the followup blow. Oleg held to his blade with both hands and met the blade with a hideous screaming sound, the swords snagging. Oleg stepped forward, blade running jaggedly against the Corsair's, aiming a kick at his knees. With a groan, the Corsair fell gracelessly, blade spinning away from him while Oleg's fell neatly to his side. Oleg stepped forward, bringing his blade up in preparation to drive the point forward, only for the Corsair to bring his head up, eyes wide with fear, left arm snapping across his face, leaving a trail of aqua.
Oleg's legs flew out from under him, sword skidding across the dirt. The Corsair stood first, panting, but Jack held up his hand.
"Stop!" The Corsair looked up, teeth bared, fists clenched. His right hand still glowed a brilliant blue. "Enough! Oleg, stand."
Oleg stood, shaking, dusting off his suit. He glanced warily at the Serkonan before retreating back to the circle, leaving his sword where it lay.
Jack stepped forward, his own fists clenched. He maintained his distance from the Corsair, but his mark flared underneath his glove. One wrong move, here…
"We've never been sent a biotic before," said Jack, remaining perfectly still. "That might have been worth bringing up."
"I needed a trump card if things got ugly." The Corsair choked this out in between breaths, the whites of his eyes clearly showing. He chuckled, but there was no humor in it, just a bit of foam at the mouth. "They told us in the Corsairs that it ain't to be used as a crutch."
We'd always wanted a biotic. Jack stared at this recruit, wondering. The Empire had precious few to spare, to the point that none could be called … dispensable. And yet, here the Spymaster had sent a biotic, a biotic Corsair, even, to the Hound's den. She should have let us know. Shedding this one's blood … it would be a waste.
Jack glanced back to Oleg, who nodded. Serve the Empire first. And the Hounds need this. Miranda offered no reaction other than folded arms. Jack stepped forward further, left hand outstretched.
"Your name."
"Jacob Taylor." He did not budge. His hand did not stop glowing. To be fair, neither did Jack's as he turned it palm down and showed off the mark. Jacob's eyes widened further.
"Do you pledge to serve me without question, and through me to serve the Empire … by any means necessary?" Jack locked his eyes with Jacob, whose gaze softened somewhat. The blue faded.
"I did once. I'll do it again."
"You will be no friend of the Abbey once this is done." Jack kept his voice steady. "You may be called to distant shores to do violence without any promise of rescue if things turn sour. But you will have power … power that no others can possess. Power that will grow as your loyalty to me grows." Jack waited for Jacob to kneel, but he did not. He merely (hesitantly) extended his own left hand, which shook slightly; whether it was from exertion or fear, Jack could not say.
"Free from oversight? From the red tape?" Jack sensed the importance of this question.
"I am your only oversight. And do you see any paperwork around here?" Jack reached out, left hand grasping Jacob's firmly. He felt his own mark burn, flashing red beneath the glove, and Jacob grunted in pain as the heat wormed it way through Jack, and into him.
"Wherever you walk, I will be able to find you. You are marked. For death by the Abbey. For greatness by me."
The smell of burned leather permeated the air, but this was hardly new. The others looked on as the first biotic Hound drew his hand back and peeled his glove off. There, sealed raw and red into his flesh, was the thirty-fifth mark Jack had shared. His skin smoked faintly as the mark began to glow.
"I do not know how our gifts will play into your biotics, Mr. Taylor." Jack clapped the Corsair on the shoulder. "But I do look forward to finding out."
Jack could not quite recall the last time he and Balak had met. He remembered blood on his hands, blood under his armor, and the red smile of a contract fulfilled … but the exact time and location of their meeting escaped him. Even the amount paid on completion no longer sprang readily to mind. But he did remember how the batarian loped his way to the base of Jack's tower and bellowed into the skies to be let in.
Watching the alien approach now from his perch on the window's ledge, Jack felt the faint stirrings of familiarity. Balak took the same route, even half-marched, half-slouched his way across the baked and rusted hellscape of Korlus as if his inner self were at war on how to present himself: as a well-respected officer of the Hegemony, or a soldier aware of the danger of his surroundings? I remember thinking this at our last meeting. When was that?
Jack could no longer remember. He waited for Balak to speak as he finally stumbled to the base of the tower, hands fumbling at the surface as if trying to find some purchase. That would be a foolish climb.
"Jack! I am here!" Balak raised his hands high, twitching them slightly. Jack smirked.
"Outie. Lower the rope."
"Acknowledged." The hovering VI spat out a length of rope, sending it plummeting below. As soon as Jack heard the muffled thump below, Outie anchored itself to the window sill, clamping down and waiting for Balak to begin his climb. Jack saw Balak's shoulders slump before he seized the rope and planted his legs against the wall. Jack waited patiently, tapping his finger against the side of the ledge to the time of Balak's fatigued grunts. The sound grew steadily louder. As soon as he could hear the tapping of the batarian's feet against the metal, Jack swung himself back over into his home.
Balak's head finally peeked over the top of the window, his right hand clawing against the edge as he tried to pull himself up. Jack reached out and grabbed the glove, remembering not to pull too hard like last time. Balak gasped and wheezed as he dragged his carcass through the opening, doubling over coughing as his feet finally touched solid ground.
"At least you did me the kindness of sending a rope." Balak wiped his mouth before standing, his clothing rumpled and stained with sweat. "Hmm. The hair on your head … grayer than I remembered. Is that normal?"
"With age. Yes." Jack folded his arms behind his back. "And you … look about the same as I remember. Although I recall you had less difficulty with the rope last time."
Balak grinned, needle teeth glinting in the dying light of Korlus's sun. Jack did not miss how his lower set of eyes kept locked on Jack, but the upper two scanned the apartment.
"Dinner, I see?" Funny that's the first thing he notices. Jack nodded and gestured at the table, on which a small bowl of steaming meat sat. Balak clapped a heavy hand on Jack's shoulder before unslinging his backpack and setting it down. He strode to the table, still breathing heavily, and practically collapsed on to the waiting chair.
"Eat." Jack sat down at the opposite end of the table. "Everything else can wait. You've come a long way." Balak tucked in without a word. Jack pointedly looked away as the teeth came out. For all their other qualities, batarians were hopeless at aping human table manners, a product of the teeth and a belief that not demonstrating visible and audible enjoyment of a cooked dish was an insult to the chef.
Fortunately, Jack did not have to endure the sounds of strained sucking and frantic chewing for terribly long. Five minutes later, the bowl featured only a small pile of bones nearly picked clean. Balak stifled a belch into the crook of his elbow.
"Thank you. Now let me demonstrate my gratitude…" Balak rose with a single outstretched finger while he retrieved his belongings. Jack waited patiently, squinting as the light continued to fade.
Balak planted the backpack on the table with a clunk. He pulled free a portfolio stuffed with documents, a gleaming black Hegemony stamp planted on its front. He slid the portfolio to Jack, who stopped it with a hand.
"I can't do any more jobs within the Empire, Balak." Jack noted the way Balak paused. "The spymaster has made that clear. If this is a hit on someone within her borders…"
"Read it." Balak sat down again, placing his elbows on the table and leaning in. "Read it, and you will understand."
Jack resisted the urge to roll his eyes and opened the portfolio. He read the target's name. Then he read it again.
"Impossible." Jack's heart began to beat faster. "If this were within our power to do … we would have done it already."
"The timing is right. Everything has been laid out." Balak grinned, his eyes being outshined by his teeth as night fell. "You need only accept."
Jack read further down. The amount rewarded … outrageous. And how much in advance? His heart beat a little faster.
"He hasn't left Ecclesiarchy space in almost seven years." Jack's eyes scanned the document, even as they ached at the strain. "Why now?"
"Who knows. But it bodes well for our efforts."
Dunwall. He would be going to Dunwall. Not an easy location by any means, especially the palace … that place had been designed to resist infiltration by men such as himself. That old heretic, Corvo, always had a bloodfly up his ass about placing spikes and tripwires on every bloody rooftop…
"I will leave the infiltration to you and yours, Jack, but we will be handling your exit."
Balak was not lying. The documents had dates, the names of the whalers they had bribed as well as their ships. A helpful map of the city even had potential routes from the palace to their getaways outlined in different colors, with annotations for each. Jack's heart beat faster, the red clawing its way to his cheeks.
They rained from the sky that day … The blood dully thudded through Jack's ears like distant cannon fire. His left hand burned at the memories flooding his mind. Old scars twinged at the recollection. Endless past fantasies and half-baked plans marched through his mind, all of them salted with the bitter aftertaste of distinct impossibility. The photo of the target stared up at him, defiant and resolute.
"We both know you have always wanted this." Balak leaned in, all four eyes fixed on Jack's own. "The opportunity is given freely. Only you could pull this off. Do you accept?"
Oleg will not approve. The thought leapt unbidden into Jack's head. But … that wouldn't make sense. Oleg had to want vengeance as much as he did. This man … this turian had ruined their lives, forced them to heresy. He will finally answer for Shanxi.
"General Desolas Arterius dies in six days," said Jack, snapping the portfolio shut. Balak nodded and smiled.
"I will begin making the arrangements."
"It can't be done."
"Can't? Or shouldn't?" Jack's eyes did not leave Oleg's wrinkled face, their cold blue light reflecting noticeably in Oleg's own. To Oleg's credit, he did not flinch. He only shrugged irritably.
"Shouldn't. Eh … both. Does it matter? The Empire's having a hard enough time managing tensions as it is, and here you want to kill a turian general in the capital."
"You losing your edge old man?" Leng leaned forward in his chair, sucking in his left cheek in a decidedly obnoxious manner. "Wait – I know the answer to that. We all do. You lost your balls to the general at Shanxi." Oleg's face reddened.
"That's enough." Jack shot a look at Leng, who only chuckled. Nevertheless, no further mockery was forthcoming. "Oleg, I understand your concerns…"
"I very much doubt that."
"We were just warned not to tip the scales any further, and now we've been presented with the opportunity of a lifetime." Jack raised an eyebrow. "That's the extent of it. Thirty-three million credits and one dead war criminal. Perhaps some chaos, yes … but can you remember the day they came, Oleg? You must, surely you must. The abbey assailed by cannon fire…"
"The Outsider walking amongst us." Oleg did not blink. "The turians made their choice and you made yours. Plenty died on both sides. I will not fault them for any of our life's woes past the initial invasion."
"Not even the brand on your face?" Miranda cocked an eyebrow.
"My choice," insisted Oleg. "And the Abbey's. If you want to blame anyone for Shanxi, blame the Ecclesiarch. It was on his order that Desolas marched. Maybe you should have asked Balak if that man's assassination was on the table, hmm?"
"Maybe." Jack's fingers thrummed against the paper-strewn table. "If it's in the cards, why not? But first, we must focus on what is possible, here."
"And it is possible." Miranda spun a paper around, sniffed. "In fact … it's alarmingly possible. It's like the stars all perfectly aligned to make this happen. The batarians have timetables, redundant escape routes, guard post listings … how in the hell did they come by all of this?"
"Balak said this was all a long time coming." A very long time. "I think they just waited until they had everything they needed before showing it to us. The fact that they're still willing to give us thirty-three million with this much assistance already…"
"This doesn't strike you as suspicious, Jack?" Oleg folded his arms. The mark on his face seemed to twitch in agony as he frowned. "A long time coming? This visit was planned only three weeks ago, and the batarians' generosity has always been bought with blood. They took us in when no one else would, but that butcher's bill … if I could go back, I would not have paid it."
"You would rather have been executed by our former brothers?" Jack thumped a fist against the table. "Oleg, please. The batarians have been fair to us for as long as we have known them. And what they are offering us now is not just fair. It is justice."
"Justice is just vengeance with a bit more paperwork attached to it." Oleg shoved away the map of Dunwall in disgust. He glanced to Miranda. "It's always been up to the three of us, ultimately." Jack tried to hide a smile as Leng scowled. Doubtless Banes would have felt the same way if he was here. "One for and one against. Miranda?" Jack caught the slight pleading tone.
Miranda looked first to Oleg, then to Jack. She gave a slight arch of the eyebrow. Jack nodded.
"They burned my city, too." Miranda produced a knife from her belt and slammed it into the table. It quivered for a few moments before Jack realized she had planted it in Desolas's face. "Oleg, with all due respect, we have the paperwork. This is justice."
Oleg opened his mouth as if to say something but thought better of it. He looked more tired than Jack had ever remembered seeing him. He inched a hand forward and dragged the maps back.
"Let my hands not be restless. I'll get you a route."
Jack smiled. "Good." He pointed to Leng and Miranda. "Both with me. It's time to make a general bleed."
Cold emptiness. A blasted island drifting in a void of howling wind and echoes of whale song. Jack shivered. He'd been here before. So many times. A single lamppost mounted on a chunk of errant rock drifted before him. Far in the distance, on that impossible horizon, gold light began to leak through the murk.
Bright. So bright. Yet … angry somehow. Fearsome. It made Jack want to turn and run, yet his footsteps only carried him forward. The shrieking wind seemed to have hooked teeth, sucking him in towards the intense gold that threatened to swallow him whole.
Jack felt for his blade to find the scabbard empty. He felt for his magic which now deserted him. He yelled for his friends, only to realize they were long dead. And as he dug in his heels and braced himself against the inevitable, something hateful stared at him through the gold. It strode forward on feet of clawed metal, a burning blade in hand. It was like staring into a sun. The beast opened its mouth to speak:
"We are now approaching our destination at Dunwall port. Beginning our descent in five minutes."
Jack stirred, tried to rub his eyes only to find them smudging his tinted glasses. His right elbow brushed against Miranda's, who shifted out of the way. Jack's back ached.
"Bad dreams?" asked Miranda, her own gaze not leaving the bright screen in front of her seat. Jack glanced at it. Some asari political drama.
"Yeah." Jack felt for his gloved left hand. The mark did not burn. Could just have been some fevered imagination. Nerves, maybe. He could feel a bottom to his stomach, deeper and wider than any he had experienced in some time. Had they ever done a hit like this before?
"Was it him?" Miranda asked it so casually, as if such a question would not ever attract incredibly unwelcome attention.
"Maybe." Jack rested his arms across his lap, shivering slightly in the mild chill of the ship. "I saw … gold. Bright gold light."
"Doesn't sound like him." A small smile played at Miranda's lips. "He prefers his black and purple, right?"
"I don't want to talk about this." Already Jack cast a few sharp glances to the other side of the aisle. Three salarians all in a row, staring blankly at the moving pictures. No one's head craned towards their conversation, from what he could see. Still…
Jack swept two fingers across his eyes. The ship came alive as the seats and walls gave way to reveal the multitude of people and aliens sitting aboard it. With each breath, the vision seemed to pulse with energy. Two aboard the ship bore bone charms hidden about their person. One was the captain. Other than that, nothing appeared out of place.
"Relax, Jack." Miranda placed a hand gently on his knee for just a moment. "This is the easy bit."
"Be ironic if we all crashed and died here," Jack mumbled, closing his eyes as the ship began to bounce and a baby started to scream. "That would be … just like him. It would."
Yet the ship did not crash and burn. It landed, as ships always did, and the passengers unclipped their buckles with a collective sigh. Jack felt his own limbs click as he stretched them out. A strange hollow pain followed afterward, at the joints. His face twisted into an angry grimace. The pain did not fade quickly.
Jack's mood did not improve as the passengers began their listless shuffling off of the ship, pausing to gather their wretched belongings. Miranda and he quickly secured their overhead and walked in clipped fashion past the seats, offering strained smiles and nods at the asari flight attendants. The smiles became less strained as they descended the steps and felt the blast of air.
"Ah. Home." In truth, Jack had never lived in Dunwall, but he would forever be a servant of the Empire. And here lies its beating heart. The smells of salt and smoke carried on a chill breeze, the smokestacks and rising skyscrapers cutting across the smoggy horizon, and the loudspeakers reminding citizens of their duties and dangers … Dunwall. Every city of the Empire, only more so.
"It's been too long." Miranda, staring wistfully at the skyline. "Every time I return, the buildings have grown a little taller."
"Good for us." Jack jerked his head forward. "Come on."
Leng waited for them at the entrance to the starport proper, a toothpick held jauntily in mouth. He looked over his tinted glasses as they approached, his impatience all too clear. A Tyvian spirit, still. This place must hold little nostalgia for him.
"Took your time, "Dad."" Leng extended a hand to Miranda, who took it with all the considerable grace she could muster. "Come on. We don't want to be late to the hotel. We have a dress rehearsal."
"Steady on, son." Jack clapped a shoulder down on Leng, hard. Leng's right knee buckled slightly. "We have plenty of time left on our schedule." Which is fortunate, because there are far too many fucking elcor in the queue ahead.
"Sweetie, make sure you have your passport. We don't want a repeat of last time, do we?" Kai flashed a dazzling smile.
"You trying to start shit with me again this soon before our wedding?" Leng looked taken aback, as if he were expecting snide wordplay back, instead. "If so, you're going to be a very disappointed man when it comes time to consummate this marriage and you find yourself sleeping on the couch downstairs."
"Sam, please," said Jack, trying to suppress a grin without much success, "not in front of me, I can't take it."
"Yes, please Sam, spare your father's ailing constitution."
"I'll ail your constitution in a minute, Sonny Jim."
They went on like that for a while, partly to establish their characters and build authenticity, partly to tacitly air out some grievances, and partly to alleviate the stifling boredom that came with border checkpoints frequented by elcor businessmen.
"Sir, what is the purpose of your stay?"
"With complete honesty: to enjoy the sights and sounds of human culture in one of the greatest cities in the galaxy."
"Are you carrying any bone charms or other supernatural paraphernalia with you?"
"With emphatic and undeniable truthfulness: no."
"Sir, may I see your translator?"
"Highly affronted: do you question my integrity, ma'am? Tinkering with translators is a coward's trick. Annoyed: if you could only smell how outraged my pheromones are at the mere suggestion…"
And on it went. By the time the three of them stood before a customs officer, their clothes clung to them from the muggy heat. Nevertheless, they put on their best forced (but not too forced) smiles on for the customs agent, who watched them approach with cold and indifferent eyes.
Leng handed off all three passports and travel documents with what was probably feigned anxiety, but one could never be sure with him. The woman scanned each passport photo with a piercing glance before checking the documents.
"Wedding and honeymoon, here? Congratulations." The tone remained far too formal for Leng and Miranda to do anything more than mutter thank yous. "Anything specific planned?"
"Specific? Not really." Leng shifted in place. "We wanted to try a bit of everything…"
"Only thing we've agreed on so far is the changing of the palace guard," jumped in Miranda, making Jack internally sigh with relief. "We were hoping we'd get a picture of the Royal Protector."
The customs officer nodded but said nothing, her eyes darting down the length of another document. She glanced to Jack.
"Not staying long, are you?"
"It's not my honeymoon," said Jack, injecting grumpiness into his tone. "I have a job to get back to."
"Ah, yes. It says you manage a … contracting firm?" The slight raise of an eyebrow. Jack coughed.
"Colony construction, mostly expanding Shanxi these days," replied Jack. "Er, not pre-fabs, you understand. We lay the actual groundwork for cities once the initial surge of agriculture and whaling has taken off." Yes, good. Sound like you're advertising without meaning it. "We do good work, I assure you. We make streets that rival Dunwall's in all respects but age." The customs officer's eyes took on a glazed quality.
"I see, very good. Well, I hope you all enjoy your stay in Dunwall." The lady inclined her head and offered a far more genuine smile this time. "And may yours be a long and fruitful marriage."
"Thank you!" Miranda motioned for Jack to follow, and the three of them marched through the checkpoint, steps becoming lighter with each passing second.
"A little of everything, eh?" Jack kept his voice low. "Were you working on that the whole trip over, or does such artful deception come naturally to you?"
"Fuck you, old man. I'm calling off this wedding."
Jack snorted at this before hailing down a hover hansom with a wave of his hand. A yellow vehicle descended almost immediately, crewed by a rather chipper salarian sporting a dapper bowler hat.
"Barcroft Court." Jack flipped the salarian a single gold coin, which he gaped at. "The rest is a tip. Stop for no one. We're in a hurry, please."
"Yes, sir!" The salarian tipped his hat and waggled the patches of scale above his eyes. The three of them filed in together, Jack taking the front seat.
"Off to visit the toffs, sir?" The salarian gave a cheeky grin without turning to look at Jack. The hansom rose unsteadily into the air while the meter on the dashboard flashed red numbers. "Don't often get around those parts myself."
"We are visiting some … toffs, yes." Jack kept his tone neutral. "Not really much for them, myself. But they're the ones with the money in their contracts." Jack thought he heard Leng stifle a snort.
"Ah, wish I could say I understood what you meant, mate." The salarian sniffed, a curiously human sound. "They don't tip well, I'll you, that. Most won't even let a salarian drive 'em."
Yeah, well if we weren't in a rush I'd be a bit choosier myself. Jack let his omnitool flare, checked the time. Less than I would like. Six fucking elcor. Six!
Despite Jack's misgivings, however, the salarian proved as apt a driver as any trueborn Dunwall driver, navigating the high streets and their jutting towers with a strange kind of vindictive grace. Halfway through the drive, a sneaking suspicion grew in Jack's mind that the salarian was showing off. The suspicion was confirmed when the salarian executed the smoothest landing at a Barcroft Court street corner he had ever seen, a thin smile playing at his lips the entire time. With a snort, he gave Jack a meaningful look and a wink.
"No luggage? Well, saves me some trouble." He produced three calling cards from a hidden pocket, one at a time, flick flick flick. "Remember me. And tell your friends. I only got a decade to live, so I don't got my time to waste, neither!"
Jack took a card gingerly and examined it with a critical eye. The salarian, bowler still on head, smiled at the picture with a green thumb extended on either hand. Written in crude golden typeface above the picture gleamed the name "Begs," underscored by, "Ten years to live, will drive fast." Jack gave the salarian a nod, pocketing the card while Leng and Miranda still stared incredulously at theirs.
"I'll remember you," said Jack, meaning it. His people could make use of such a salarian.
"And I, you, sir!" said the salarian, tipping the bowler hat and rolling a golden coin between his fingertips. It vanished faster than the sun could gleam on it. "Do enjoy your stay in Dunwall."
The hover hansom disappeared from their lives as quick as it had entered it, joining the throng of fellow transports that hurtled their way from building to building and street to street. Jack watched it depart for a moment, mind still struggling to fully process what he had just witnessed before returning to the task at hand.
The Court appeared deserted.
"Rooftops. My lead." Leng and Miranda nodded. Jack directed his attention to the closest bust of some long-dead politician. His left fist clenched at his side. He appeared atop it with a whisper of wind. Without pausing, he directed his mind and attention to the rooftop now across from him, its black tiles shining dully in the smog-choked sunlight.
Jack's feet tapped neatly against new tiling. He waited for his companions to join him, their appearance heralded by ribbons of shadow dancing in the wind second before their transport.
Jack waved a single gloved hand before adjusting his glasses. Be glad to be rid of these. The Empire's flag danced gaily in the wind above many rooftops – they were bound for the one closest to the locked-off district. West. Sun at our backs. Their feet created a merry racket against first tile, then brick, then gray steel, but if anyone noticed or cared, they kept quiet about it. This deep into the city, Jack could now hear the loudspeakers far more clearly.
"This is a general warning: wire charms are not permitted within Dunwall or any of the Empire's territories. Violators will be prosecuted on the spot to the fullest extent of the law. Those complicit in the sale or transport of wire charms will likewise be administered the harshest penalty. This message carries the blessing of the empress."
"That one's new." Leng panted a little as he spoke, their feet still beating a rat-tat-tat against worn tiles. "Was the outbreak really that bad?"
"We'll learn firsthand soon enough." Jack did not relish the prospect. "Remember, keep your flesh unexposed, and if you see one of those damned charms, keep your bloody distance."
"Prosecuted on the spot," Miranda muttered. "Sounds like something my father would have ordered, if the empress would have let him. I guess she is, now."
"Desperate times." Jack's lips twitched upward as he spied the flagpole he wanted. "Once more."
The three of them arrived together on the wind-blasted and forgotten roof, much of the city now spread all around them. Despite himself, Jack cast a long glance to their destination, the thrice-accursed Noble District, now cordoned off at both street and sky level. No hansoms flew between its oddly dark spires now, and even from this distance Jack could see sparks flying from the creeping blue wiring that spread from flesh to cobblestone with such unnatural ease.
Beyond that, however, waited Dunwall Tower, still standing proud and bright above the ruin that now clung to its underbelly. Even now, it still stirred something in the chest. Pride. Sadness, a little.
And anticipation.
Jack felt the side of the flagpole until he found the hidden catch. With a click, a large black bag spilled out, only hastily caught by the waiting Miranda. A single note drifted out after it, snatched out of the air by Jack.
Pulled all the stops, as requested, courtesy of yours truly. As always, you are missed terribly.
Trias the Red
A large crimson lipstick stain still clung to the wrinkled piece of paper. Jack shredded it without hesitation, letting the remnants scatter as the wind willed.
"One of these days that asari is going to leave a bomb in there," Leng warned, pulling free the contents of the bag. "She's known for that, she is."
"I'd like to think an asari at her age would know better than to anger someone with the ability to stop time," said Miranda, pulling out her whaling slicks from the bag and giving them a very judgmental look. "They smell as if the moths have been at them. And they're wrinkly."
"Moths won't eat that." Well, unless they're from Pandyssia. But Pandyssia was always the exception to everything. Jack took his own folded leathers from Leng and removed his glasses. The mask went on first, followed by the outfit itself, then the boots. Despite smelling off, despite jacking up the temperature a few degrees just by virtue of wearing them, and despite feeling tight all 'round, Jack felt liberated once inside. Back to being myself. The real contract work.
Leng produced a small strip of metal. He adjusted something with his thumb, and a blade, razor-sharp and gleaming black, shot out from the end.
"Nice."
"Ten sleeper darts each." Miranda tapped her omnitool and picked up one of the small data chips left inside the bag. "Omnibow software installed. No viruses." She took the retractable blade from Leng's hand almost as an afterthought. "Thanks."
Would prefer to use my saber. Still, Jack could not help but marvel at how feather-light the sword felt as it extended from the hilt, its edge looking keen enough to slice through a ship's hull. The omnibow software did not hold the same thrill.
It took only minutes for the other two to finish dressing and for the bag to be emptied of sundry poisons, weapons, and clothing. His two companions stood to either side of him now, faces obscured, looking down on the Noble District with something approaching apprehension.
"I confess, I'm not looking forward to tackling this part alone." Miranda, keeping her voice firm.
"We'll be in radio contact, should you feel the need for a little more … time." The mark on Jack's hand burned. "Leng? You ready?"
"I'm always ready." If Kai Leng felt any trepidation at what was to come next, he did not seem keen on showing it. "Although … I feel like Oleg gave me the sewer access on purpose. The man never did like me, despite my obvious charms."
"I am also using sewer access," replied Jack lightly.
"Yeah, but yours isn't still in use."
Jack hastily turned a laugh into a cough.
"Take it up with him when we get back."
"Right." Leng's gloved hands clenched and unclenched. "Shall we?"
The three of them vanished as one, but this time their destinations differed entirely. Miranda began her long trip across the rooftops that should, according to Oleg, take her through the sentries. Leng began his trip downwards into a world full of fresh shit. And Jack got the old tunnels, where a shrine conveniently enough waited for him.
The descent down did not take Jack as long as he thought it would. Perhaps it was just a miscalculation, or perhaps something else spurred his feet to burn as they did. How often can I claim to have a relationship with my target already? As Jack's knees buckled at the longest jump yet, his right hand felt for the hilt of his blade while the left ran flat against the ground, steadying him. He gripped the metal tightly.
Jack's descent did not stop at street level. This close to the blockade around the District, the loudspeakers grew much louder, these ones carrying an even franker message than the ones before it.
"Attention Dunwall citizens: entry into the Noble District is forbidden. The Royal Marines and City Watch have orders to shoot violators on sight. Those who do evade the empress's judgment will be subject to an excruciating death. Looting these buildings is not worth it. Risking your life is not worth it. No one enters the Noble District."
And yet, people were still entering the Noble District. Not from street level or by hansom, to be sure, but there were paths for those who knew the city well, as their contacts did.
"No blockade can be completely airtight," Oleg had said, pointing to the spots on the map where the security was weakest. "We have good word on at least seven people using these routes in the last two weeks to successfully infiltrate the Noble District."
"And how many of them made it back out?" Miranda had asked.
"One."
Jack's feet crunched on gravel and cobblestone. Here stood the parts of the city that few feet still touched, the areas between old buildings and under old bridges. Places where occasionally one could find centuries old graffiti written during the times of the Rat Plague, or where sometimes what crunched underfoot was not stone but ancient bone.
A small grate, rusted several times over, marked where Jack needed to go next. His mark flaring, he grabbed the bars and pulled, letting the Void assist muscle and bone where it would. The bars came free with a muffled scream. Jack flung them aside and lay down, sliding on the dead leaves and into the dark.
Jack landed with legs bent. The ground felt bone dry, and he could detect no odors. The light strewn from above seemed weak and scant now that he was down here. His fingers swept before his eyes, letting the world change into a far more manageable series of purples and blues. The shrine was close by.
Jack strode forward, footsteps not making a sound, a hand always on his sword. Rats darted away at his passing, little flares of life in an otherwise still and empty place. The smell of waste grew pungent as the familiar hum of a rune grew louder.
The tunnel turned, and steel bars blocked his path. Beyond it, inexpertly maintained, sat a shrine, flowers and mushrooms set in jars around it. Jack smirked and placed his hands on the closest bar, bending it until he could fit through. He edged his way through the gap and then stood before the pedestal of neon lights and pathetic offerings. Without a moment's hesitation, he took the rune.
And froze. His vision grew dim, and the world around him grew even darker. A foul wind howled, the odor growing ever more pungent, and Jack fell to his knees.
He felt sick, sicker than anything, his stomach roiling with discomfort. It was … fear. Fear stronger than any he had ever felt, more than even when he was first faced with the Outsider. His head snapped up. On the impossible horizon, something burned. And it was growing closer.
With a sound like the whistle of an infernal tea kettle, Jack came to his senses. The shrine sat before him, dead-looking, the lights dimmed a little. What was that? Jack had pillaged other shrines before, but the Outsider had never deigned to speak. He had just … retrieved the rune, and that was that. This was different.
"If you have something to say, just say it." The words bounced back at him, feeble and empty as the tunnels he crept through. "Gold light – how am I supposed to know what it means?"
Yet the Outsider did not answer. He didn't do that anymore. Not that I care. The rune grew cold in Jack's grip. He let it fall to the floor with a clatter before turning and leaving. He did not look back.
"I'm in the old tunnels. Rune secured." When Jack's words echoed back to him, they sounded different, somehow. Hoarser. He tried to ignore it. "Moving under the district."
"Leng here. Waist deep in shit." The man did not sound amused. "I want double for this one, damn it!"
"Lawson. About to breach the blockade. If you hear a bunch of alarms, then I failed." You sound nervous, Miri. Don't be. Share the faith I have in you. But of course, Jack did not voice this.
The tunnels bent and twisted, silent but for Jack's breathing and the surprised squeaking of rats. The path grew darker, noticeable only at how the rats seemed to glow ever more brightly in Jack's vision. If anyone was using this route to enter the Noble District, it wasn't today. Jack's breath steamed in front of him. This place had not felt the warmth of the sun in a very long time. The turians would love it.
The path rose upwards, as Oleg had promised. The air began to smell of copper and oil.
"Below." Jack could not even be sure if the message reached the two of them. They did not reply. He felt a pang of anxiety at that. It did not help that the rats appeared to have fled. They knew better than he did.
Light shone faintly ahead. Another grate, old bars half-broken on some street corner. Jack could hear loudspeakers, muffled and indistinct. This is what it sounded like on the other side of the blockade.
Jack braced his arms as he clenched his fist. When he appeared in mid-air before the grate, he was ready. His hands scrabbled against the loose stone on the lip of the grate before finding purchase. With a grunt, he hoisted himself up, belly dragging against gravel as he did so. He crawled into the weak light with hands and knees, hoping nothing had heard him.
The loudspeakers still echoed in these quiet streets, nothing carrying but the emphasis the announcer placed on his words. The light here had somehow become tinted blue, skewed by the strange energies. Outside these streets, sunlight bathed the city, even strained as it was through the smog. Here, its rays became twisted. Dark.
Wires and strange flesh-like tubing ran up the buildings like creeping vine. In many places they crept through windows using jagged holes of their own making before snaking back out again elsewhere. Drainpipes hummed with electricity. The hair on the back of Jack's neck rose from the inherent static electricity.
Jack made his way gingerly up the steps from where he stood to actual street level. In the distance, technically closer now yet feeling further than ever, stood Dunwall Tower. Before him, a quarter of a mile of wire-infected wilderness. And he was not alone.
Bodies lay strewn on the streets, some sprawled on the floor, covered in a blanket of eldritch circuitry, others curled up into a ball, hands against their face, both fused together by a thin sheet of blue metal. None of them moved. None of them breathed.
It would be a mistake to assume this meant they were strictly dead.
Jack edged his way further down the road, careful to plant each foot down as quietly and firmly as he could. Wires crackled underfoot as he stepped, an occasional red spark flying up to lick his boots. He thought he saw a hand stir beneath the mesh of living steel. But there was nothing.
Whispers licked the edges of Jack's thoughts. In a moment of utter lunacy he activated his Void vision only to immediately regret it. The ground below him glowed bright with life. As did the buildings. The figures. The lampposts. Everywhere the wires touched burst with searing energy. His fingers ran across his face again. The lights faded.
"Twelve," muttered Jack, not sure why. The city seemed to stir at his speech. "Twelve."'
A figure stood alone in the street, head staring upward at the darkened skies. The sound of grinding clockwork emanated from its chest, a gruesome facsimile of a working heart. Jack crouched low, blade flicking from the hilt. Steady, now.
Killing well came with practice. Asari were similar to humans, with a heart in roughly the same location, the same kind of lungs. Turians were a different beast entirely, armored about the chest, but still weak to sucking chest wounds. A single lung puncture would nearly always prove fatal, since they only had the one. Salarians – didn't matter. Their blood pumped so fast that the shock delivered by a wound made by a human would nearly always kill, provided it came hard and fast. Trick was hitting them to begin with.
"Let the clock … strike twelve." An electronic groan, repeated over and over. "Why does it wait? Our call is not heard…"
Wire-fiends … the heart was the key. The gears that drove the entire abomination into unnatural life were its most vital organ. Jack had heard tales of such creatures being eventually hacked to non-functional pieces, but that was not something one man could do alone. Jack readied his left hand.
The trick was not to shove the blade into someone's back. That took work. Dragging them into a sharp blade on the other hand…
Jack's hand clamped over the creature's mouth as he jerked it backward into his waiting right hand. The beast uttered a muffled electronic howl as Jack brought it into his blade, the point shoving clean through the back and up through the ribcage. Jack drove the point forward, hearing glass break and metal tear. His blade, now running with violent blue liquid, pointed through the other side of the fiend. The scream died like a radio running out of battery. The creature fell limp, and Jack pulled his sword free with a hidden grimace. He left the dead where it lay. Nothing else stirred.
Jack continued on, blade in hand, its edge dripping with fluid. The target loomed ahead. A tower, taller than the rest, with a perfect view of Dunwall Tower.
Three more fiends sat together in a circle around a hansom covered in thick red wiring. Their heads jerked to and fro, as if to some hidden music. Jack passed them by, breath catching in his throat at every inadvertent sound.
"Twelve. Twelve."
The door to the entrance was riddled with gaping holes, the greedy tubes and wires having punctured it in half a dozen places. Stepping up the staircase, Jack could hear the sounds of ticking within. He pushed open the left side door gingerly, as far as it would go before the wires stopped it. Bodies decorated the floor of the lobby beyond. At its center, a single clock ticked away the time, held up by a pedestal of mortified flesh and repurposed bone.
Jack stared at the grisly altar for a few moments, trying to figure out just what the hell was the rhyme or reason behind the plague. But truthfully, it was none of his concern. All that mattered was making it to the stairwell. And there's a horde of angry bodies between me and them.
The first step was the hardest. The second was the hardest, too. Each footstep came with a sound like the crunching of dead leaves. Jack's breathing came ragged and harsh.
There. The staircase, its door rent open by countless wires. Jack clenched his left fist. Released it. Stood triumphant at the foot of the stairwell.
The clock shrieked in sudden anger, its shrill cry echoing through Jack's ears. With a chorus of moans which swiftly graduated to synthetic roars, the room came to what could almost be called life.
Jack did not bother to question what had just happened but instead tore up the stairs, blood pumping. His legs did not notice how they burned after the third flight, nor did Jack feel the pain in his knee when he tripped and caught himself with his hands on the landing, leg bashing against hard concrete. Below came the thump thump thump of countless angry feet. The wires below hissed and coiled like snakes.
On and on the flights went. Doors burst in, wood splintering as other fiends reached through for Jack as he sprinted past them, blade in hand. One reached too far and screamed as Jack sent its hand flying with a flick of his blade.
The shuffling footsteps grew louder. Jack clenched his fist and let time stop. He turned to look at his pursuers, lost count at eighteen. The closest of them looked fit to lunge, and close enough to have some result. Jack looked up, tried to envision himself two flights above. With a deep breath, he released his grip, almost immediately tripping as his feet landing unevenly on the stairs. The screaming from below only grew louder, as if his act had somehow enraged them.
"Twelve! Twelve!"
"Outsider! Outsider!"
Now, that was new. But Jack had no time to ponder its meaning. Seventeen floors remained. The pain in his knee began to flare. Still, up he went.
The beasts did now slow, but Jack could not claim the same. His lungs burned, his legs ached, his knee flared with horrid pain. His blinks could only carry him so far, so fast, and already he was using more energy on them then he would have liked. He limped his way up the steps, silently muttering the same word over and over.
Twelve … damn it all!
A final blink. Only four stories remained. Jack almost collapsed as he landed, his knee giving way in protest. He caught himself with both hands, blade clanking against the cold ground. He looked up … and felt his heart catch in its chest.
A wall of light. Inexplicable. Inescapable. Blocking his only exit. It stretched from one end of the stairwell to the other. It sparked and hissed with deadly promise. A single reinforced whale oil canister sat in an indentation to its left, clean wires running to the wall itself. The pounding of feet grew closer.
Jack swore, summoned strength from deep within himself. Shadows formed from the edges of his vision, culminating in a shape not so dissimilar from himself, standing on the other side of the wall.
"The oil!" His shadow nodded, prying the canister free from its mooring. The canister came loose with a hiss, followed by two quick low notes as the wall powered down. Jack slipped past, seizing the tank and pushing it back inside. The shadow watched passively as the wall shuddered back into life. It faded from sight as soon as the barrier fully reactivated.
"Hey, did we just lose the wall?" Voices from above. Jack, already flushed with exhaustion, swore under his breath. "Young, go check it out."
"Aye aye." Royal Marines. They had stationed Royal Marines at the top of the tower. Jack glanced upwards, looking for anything that could be used as a perch. People so rarely looked up, after all.
There. A beam, not even a foot across, stretching close from one window to the wall. Feeling a pinch as he did so, Jack readied himself for one last blink. With a gasp, he stood unsteadily atop the beam, looking down on the staircase as a shadow loomed larger on it.
A marine, dressed head to toe in crimson, stepping merrily. She stopped halfway to the wall of light, hand on her hilt. The fiends had stopped screaming. They watched her hungrily from behind the barrier.
"Haven't learned your lesson, yet?" The marine pulled a pistol from her holster and aimed it square. The report rang in Jack's ears far too loud. A fiend lurched backward, a hole leaking turquoise sprouting from its brow. The marine fired again. The fiends screamed, beginning to slowly back away.
"That's right, back to where you came from!" Three more shots. The fiends fell back down the stairs, hissing and moaning, the wounded leaving patches of blue where they had been struck. The marine grunted in satisfaction before sliding her pistol back where it belonged. For a few moments she inspected the whale canister before shrugging. She departed back up the steps smartly, apparently satisfied.
"Wall's back up. Not sure what happened. Locals are restless." Jack did not hear the rest of the conversation. His leg wobbled where he stood. It took all his effort to remain steady.
After two minutes, it was clear the marine was not coming back. He let himself fall, catching himself with another closed fist. He stood unevenly on the stairs, letting his hand rest on the railing. Slowly, he worked to finish his journey. A trapdoor, and the marines beyond it, were all that stood between him and the completion of the contract.
"Miranda. Leng." Jack paused to wheeze for a moment. "I am in position … except there are marines in my tower."
"Yep, same here."
"That you, boss? You must be the last up. Yep, they've got sentries here, too."
"Great." Jack paused to think. "Either of you got a good view of the Tower?"
"Negative."
"Nope. Sorry boss."
"All right." Jack leaned against the wall, thinking. "Radios are disrupted inside the barricade, correct?"
"They work inside, but the signal won't make it out." Miranda, eager to please. "Works in reverse, too. Outside signals won't be able to get in, either." Wire interference. "I think they've got a green light set up. I saw them flashing it at the palace."
"These sentries have to check in regularly, but can only do so with each other." Jack rubbed his neck. "As for the light, we can keep on flashing it. Eh … we're going to have to take the sentries all out at once. And I do mean at once."
"Right." Miranda sounded uncertain. "Just say the word."
"Ready, boss. Lethal or non-lethal?"
"Non-lethal, you fool." Jack ground his teeth. "They are servants of the Empire, same as us. Why on earth would we kill them?"
"One way to make sure they don't get in our way." Jack could just imagine Leng folding his arms. "Non-lethal it is. Darts prepped."
Jack's hand felt sore. The mark burned. Below, he could still hear faint howling.
"Ready." Jack clenched his hand harder. His nerves felt as if they could catch fire. "One, two, three … go."
Time stopped, the air becoming gray and still. Jack heaved his shoulder through the trapdoor, the wood outright splintering at the onslaught. Four marines, two on scoped rifles watching the Tower, two with monoculars. Jack gritted his teeth and aimed his bow.
Pum, pum, pum, pum. The omnibow flashed four times, the darts flying free, each bound for a different neck. Jack looked to his left. Two similar towers lay in the distance, where motion could be seen. The only motion. Jack felt time creeping back up on him.
"What the-" The marines reared to life, just in time for the darts to find their throats. With a flash of green, each buried itself in flesh, and the marines reeled momentarily at the impact. One opened her mouth to shout, only to gurgle instead. They slumped together in unison, weapons falling with a clatter.
"Clear." Jack breathed.
"Clear."
"Clear."
Jack stared over the lip of the tower's edge. They had a direct line of sight on Dunwall Tower from here. The empty rooftops below even provided a direct route. They were right to set up here. A sniper could do some damage.
"Pretty sure they airdropped these guys in." Miranda, probably trying to show off. "Hopefully they weren't planning on doing a pickup or rotation anytime soon."
"They were in for the long haul. A pity Balak's sources couldn't have warned us about this." Jack nudged a sandbag with his toe. It stank of urine. Discarded packets of salted beef sat neatly on the western edge of the tower. "You two okay? No trouble with the fiends?"
"Negative."
"No, boss. Killed three on the quiet, but didn't manage to stir anything up."
Must have had the hardest route.
"Or I'm getting old." He hadn't meant to say it aloud. He looked down at the unconscious marines. "Still, good enough. I'm still alive."
"Eyes on the Tower. I can see a turian." Jack looked up, but could see nothing distinct. He pried a monocular from the stiff hands of one marine and brought it to his eye. An unmasked overseer and a turian in military clothing walked side by side. I think that's our man.
"Taking a listen." Jack let his consciousness reach out to give the gentlest of markings. For a moment, the twin inputs of what he could see and hear versus what Desolas could see and hear made war with each other, sending a shiver of pain through Jack. Then he shut his real eyes, let himself immerse in his target.
"…brother will make peace with his prejudices, as I hope your people with theirs." An unfamiliar mouth moved to make these sounds. Jack could never get used to looking through alien eyes. The blues and greens of the palace grounds were so much more vibrant, everything else more dull. "It is a great honor, Anderson. Especially for a species so recently introduced to the galactic scene."
Anderson? He could see the unmasked overseer more clearly now. Yes, it was Anderson, far more wrinkled and worn than he remembered, but still possessed of a burning stare and strong arms. For a moment, Jack felt that thrill of recognition, of recollection … and then remembered just who he stood next to. Who he was politely conversating with.
"The boy has promise, and he is ready to represent our species." Jack noticed the scar across David's lip, twisting as he spoke to the turian. His voice sounded deeper than Jack remembered. "As for prejudices, well, he does not fondly remember what happened to his home the day we took him. Nor do I. But you are seeing to that, are you not?"
"It is well overdue." Desolas turned, stared over the pavilion and out into the sea. "The Ecclesiarch does not approve of what I have agreed to, but the Primarch concurred with me: these wounds have not been sufficiently bound. I want to see both of our races excel, Anderson. I have made my expectation clear to Saren. Shepard will have no trouble from him during his examinations. I have seen to it."
Shepard. The name stirred a memory. The day Shanxi burned. The Shepard boy. I suppose he made it. The rest did not make much sense, however. But it was not what Jack was looking for. He was looking for the signal.
"Another turian," Leng called out. Desolas was already turning to greet him.
"Saren! This is your prospective student's current mentor. Captain David Anderson, of the warfare overseers. One of our most fervent allies against the batarians." The second turian strode up the steps with a gleam in his eye. He gave David's outstretched hand a critical glance before shaking it with what was clearly unease. "How are you feeling?"
"Must there be so much ocean?" Saren spoke with a higher and clearer voice than Desolas's, yet was no less intimidating for it. Yet, when he looked to Desolas, it was with obvious warmth. Unlike Desolas, he wore a full set of combat armor, emblazoned with both the Citadel's and the Ecclesiarchy's chained sun. An Inquisitor. Great. He alone among the three wore a blade. Jack's heart thudded dully in his chest.
"The second turian is an Inquisitor. That's a problem." Jack spoke slowly, trying to separate the sensation of his own body from Desolas's. "We can't kill him. That will invite reprisal we will not survive."
"And killing the general won't?" Miranda, laughing dryly. "Waiting on the signal. Is that Samuel Murphy down on the pavilion?"
"No. It's An – an old acquaintance." Jack frowned. "We can't kill him either. Only one man dies today." If you can call him a man.
"Copy. We'll take care of the other two."
"Is the boy ready?" asked Saren roughly, staring down Anderson.
"He survived Whitecliff. He excelled at Elysium." David nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on Saren without blinking. "He's gone above and beyond what is expected, and I would know. I was there the day we brought him in. No one is more unswerving in his faith and duty. You can trust him to serve the Citadel to the utmost."
"Good. Because when I look out there, Anderson, to that blackened district? I do not see promise."
David's face darkened at Saren's words. In the corner of Desolas's vision, Jack could see the guards down the staircase being motioned off. Now, how did Balak pull that off? Soon a cannon will fire, signifying the start of the event … whatever it was supposed to be.
"Enough, Saren. It's about to start. I pray the words do not choke in my mouth; such things do not come easily to turians. Or generals. Especially old ones." Desolas sounded tired, but resolute. He clasped Saren's hand. "Do not fault the humans too harshly for their own early troubles. They have not gone the way of the volus or krogan just yet, nor do I see clockwork soldiers marching down their streets with reckless abandon, so they are not quarians either. Try to find what you can admire in them, as I have. Can any claim the same strength of faith as the Abbey of the Everyman?"
"No," said Saren, making Jack bite his lip. "They are stalwart as any Palvanus."
A muffled boom in the distance. It was time.
"Leng, take the Inquisitor. Not dead, mind you, just wounded enough. Miranda, incapacitate the overseer. Watch their shields." Jack let his mind snap back to his own body. He pulled his sword free, let the stained blade flick out. "The general is mine."
Jack vaulted over the edge of the tower. He free-fell only a few feet before rematerializing at the next rooftop. He could see two other figures adjacent, running. His own feet pounded concrete, then tile, then brick. The Tower grew closer.
Shouts went up. The other two had made it first. Jack jumped for the final time, mark burning. He stood in the pavilion, the sun at his back.
Anderson lay bleeding on the ground, struggling to rise as Miranda struck him across the face again with the hilt of her sword. Saren Arterius and Leng clashed in a flurry of blades, both snarling. Desolas, meanwhile, shouted for help, wondering where the hell the guards went. Then he saw Jack.
"Ah. I see." The general folded his arms. Jack approached slowly, purposefully, and he wasn't even sure why. Time seemed to slow.
"No!" Saren, yelling. Leng yelped as a vicious cut got him across the chest, and he vanished from sight, leaving only smoke. Saren aimed a kick at Miranda, who rolled neatly out of the way only to gasp as Saren immediately produced a pistol from his other hand and fired it, striking her somewhere in the chest. She too, vanished, leaving smoke and a small puddle of blood.
Jack growled, backhanding Desolas across the face before rounding on Saren … who now held a dizzy Anderson at swordpoint, his blade held across his neck. Jack paused.
"Is that supposed to stop me?" But his voice wavered. Saren did not let his gaze leave Jack's face.
"I know exactly who you are, and where you came from. Touch him, and the Empire goes up in flames. And I'll be happy to send it on its way." He tightened his grip on David, who winced. "Do you remember what it was like, to have honor? Do you still care for the Abbey you once pretended to serve?"
"Jack." David grunted, trying to stay still but get words out nonetheless. "Just leave. You can't do this."
"Can't?" Jack grinned under his mask, mark burning. "Or shouldn't?"
The shadow formed behind Saren even as the shout went up. The echo of a blade materialized in its hand it drove it in, through the stomach, treatable but agonizing.
Saren screamed the high scream of those a long time dying. He released his grip, and David fell forward with a shout. Jack rounded on Desolas, who stood with blood dripping from his face.
"I had a message-"
"Fuck your message. Here's mine." Jack strode forward, blade at the ready. Desolas did not flinch, only stood there, eyes softening with fear of the inevitable.
"Remember Shanxi."
Jack drove the blade deep, angling it beneath the turian's thick ribcage and through the lung. Desolas's breath went out in a shrill whistle, and he heard Saren scream in dismay. Harsh clawed hands scrabbled at Jack's back, finding purchase at the base of his neck. With surprising gentleness, Desolas pulled Jack's head back, bringing their faces together.
"I'm … sorry."
The grin on Jack's face vanished. The blood pooled thick and fast on to his gloves. Desolas's grip began to weaken.
"What?"
But Desolas only shuddered, trying to draw in air. Jack pulled the blade free, and Desolas fell back, teetering for a moment at the edge. With a final ragged gasp, he fell backwards, his body tumbling below into an endless sea.
As Jack turned away from his kill, head reeling, his eyes skidded across the sun above, leaving a livid smear of gold across his vision.
