Billie

These days, you don’t go out much without a mask between you and the world. When you take off your mask, take off the red coat and black gloves that every district in Dunwall knows to fear, you become just another face in a faceless crowd of powerless mice. Better to be a shadow, to eat bread stolen from rich men’s plates and drink the wine from their cups after you slit their throats. You know you aren’t not alone in feeling that way; know most of the [[Whalers]] sleep in their damn masks. You have them for companionship, their [jokes]<c2|(click:?c2)[(display:"jokes")], their [dice games]<c3|(click:?c3)[(display:"dice games")], their [songs]<c4|(click:?c4)[(display:"songs")]. And you have [[Daud]].

You don't have what you want from him, but he talks to you [[sometimes]].

false face of rough leather and staring glass eyes

(crude and cruel and blood-spattered, and you never laugh but they don't expect you to)

(every player is expected to cheat)

(echoing off the filthy water of the Flooded District)

About the Void, about death and life. More than he talks to [[anyone else.]]

[[It's something.]]

It's not a pretty [[life,]] but it's far preferable to the life you threw away [[five years ago.]]

No. You don't think about that any more. You're a Whaler now. You're Daud's [[second in command.]]

Yesterday, when you reported to Daud on the Whalers’ activities, he got up from his pensive crouch and put his hand on your arm. You were in one of the ruined houses of the Flooded District, but not the one the Whalers are currently using as headquarters. Daud put his hand on your arm and looked at you. He wasn’t [[wearing a mask.]] “You need to get out more,” he said. “Without that mask, I mean.” Your senses were overwhelmed by smell, the sewer stench of the water below and the acrid tang of Daud’s power. You quivered with anger. But all you said was, [[“Sir.”]]

You know everything about each of them because that's your job as [[Daud’s second.]]

Whether [[he->Start]] cares about it or not.

Daud's [[second in command.]] You worked hard for this position. You earned it. You'll do a good job at it, whether he appreciates it or not.

He never does. Everyone in the Isles knows and fears that scarred face. The masks are just you and the others trying to ride on that fear, like ticks on a dog. You know that every time you [[look at him.->second in command.]]

Now it's morning, [[gray and foggy.]] You sleep in your own room, in this abandoned town house- a privilege of your rank. Alone but for the [[rats.]] You have a crick in your neck. And you have a choice. You could put on [[the mask, and the coat, and the sword.->tools]] Or you could put on [[something else.]]

Mornings usually are gray and foggy, in Dunwall. There are places in the world, you know, where the sun shines almost every day. Sometimes you wonder what it would be like to live in one of them. But not often. There's too much to be concerned with in the [[here and now.->“Sir.”]].

The tools of your trade. You'd think bloodstains wouldn't show up on a coat this shade of red, but they do. The mask is the last item you put on. As always, the moment it covers your face you feel transformed. The softer parts of you, the Billie that Dierdre loved, are contained in the darkness behind the mask. Protected by the killer you've become. What now? You could check on Daud. [[See if he's stopped brooding over the last job.]] You could check in with the others. [[See if anything new's turned up.]]

There's a trunk of clothes in the corner, all things you grabbed in fits of fancy when robbing the houses of the wealthy. Here's a dark vest and dark trousers that aren’t too attention-grabbing. [[You put them on.]]

Out the window, then, too fast for any eye to follow. Across the roofs of what once was Rudshore Financial District, until you reach the Wrenhaven. Now drop down and [[go forth]] as one of the masses.

You're never quite anonymous. Not with your dark face, though you'd like to think it's more the edge in your movements that make people give you a wide berth. But down by the river no one pays much attention. You buy a Morley apple, red and sweet, and eat it while you [[listen.->the crowd]]

Ugh. [[No. ->tools]] You're not his minder.

One of the Whalers- Cleo- has a message for you. "Someone wants to hire," she says, voice muffled by the mask. "She wouldn't say what for. Just a location." The girl tilts her head. "Would have laughed in her face, but the request came with this." The bag in her hand clinks loudly when she places it on the rotting table. [[A job's a job.]] Even if, at this point, the money's just a way to keep score.

A squeeze of the charm[, and you can listen.]<c5|(click-replace:?c5)[(display:"listen")] [[Thanks, Dierdre.->“Sir.”]]

. Water rushed in. We heard it, knew to run, to scurry, while bigger creatures drowned. Their corpses floated and we feasted, but the nests! The little ones! Lost.

The address is in the Rust District. Half the city away from Rudshore, but you like the travel. Transversing from roof to roof makes you feel like a spider, wrapping the whole wretched city in your net. The people down on the streets, dirty and coughing and angry with each other, they're just ants. You leap, reach for the fabric of the world, twist- and for a gut-lurching fraction of a second you pass through the world, through the Void, just long enough for a shudder of cold and a flash of darkness- and your boots slam into the roof tiles on the other side of the street, and there's weak smog-choked sunlight around you again, and the cries of pigeons in your ears. Dunwall smells of garbage and dead fish, but sometimes you breathe in deeply, just to clear the scent of that other place, the odor of ancient rotting things fathoms beneath a black sea. When you reach the Rust District and its fields of warehouses, you scuttle down a wall like a lizard. A collection of flyers and pamphlets paper the wall. One of them [[catches your eye->the flyer]], a white flag fluttering in the shadows of the alley.

The words wrap around you. There's the usual complaints, prices too high, children sick, does the Empress care?, shall we gather for cigars tonight? But there's a new thread. Fear, mixed up in excitement. A shadow stalking the streets. A masked murderer. Alright, you're interested. You listen closer. [[Ask a question or two.]]

WANTED FOR THE MURDER OF ROYAL SPYMASTER HIRAM BURROWS THIS MASKED FELON Enemy of the City of Dunwall The offenses of this man are high crimes under the Strictures of the High Overseer, the municipal laws of the City Watch of Dunwall, and the edicts of our glorious Empress Jessamine Kaldwin in these difficult times. BE ADVISED: The felon is suspected to make use of black magics and may possess unnatural abilities. REWARD OF 10,000 COINS For Capture or Death Reward will be paid in coin by the City Watch in addition to rewards offered by Private Citizens or outstanding organizations. There's a drawing, too; not a good one, but good enough that you feel a little unnerved, looking at a bizarre cobbled-together mask. Huh. Maybe Daud was telling the truth, when he told you he wasn't the one who bumped off Burrows. You can't imagine him wearing that. But why is this image only appearing now, two weeks after the announcement of the Spymaster's death? Well, that's not your mystery to solve right now. [[You're here on a job.]]

"They think he's what did for the Royal Spymaster," a fishmonger tells you. Burrows? You'd thought that was Daud, that he was keeping secrets from you. But he wouldn't mask his face. "He's been seen," a factory worker on break says, blowing smoke out of her pipe. She's got a tattoo that looks like a gang sign, but not one you recognize: a thorned rose curling over her collarbone. "Running 'cross the rooftops at night faster than the Outsider. My mate Del saw 'im. Mask like a metal skull, she said. Nearly scared her to death, and she don't scare easy." She lowers her pipe, and leans in a little. "Said he turned into black smoke. And I believe her, cause other people say it too. He's got dark powers." Someone new to the city? Could be an old regular in a new mask, but if this choffer really does have powers he's got to be new in town. Otherwise you would know about him. [[Wouldn't you?]]

The address you were given leads to a warehouse. You know it, it's owned by Rothwild Potted Meat, but they've been shutting down factories and closing up warehouses for months now. The place is silent. No one to drive away the [[rats]] swarming in the gutters. You take a look at the building, and reach for that dark cold place again. Reach lightly, letting it sink into the veins in your eyes. Close your eyelids. Open them. There's one human inside. Sitting on a crate of old tins, looks like. A woman. No money in her pockets. There's something... you try to concentrate, but it slips away. The padlock on the door hasn't been touched, so she must have gotten in another way. [[There. An open window.]]

Listen[, if you like.]<c5|(click-replace:?c5)[(display:"Listen, if you like.")] But not for too long. [[The customer's waiting.->You're here on a job.]]

Up and over, out of the gray morning into a sudden darkness- Something grabs your ankle. Faster than thought, you're flat on your back on hard packed dirt, a warm weight on top of you, a sharp elbow digging into your throat. "Hello, Billie Lurk," a woman's voice whispers into your ear, [[wet and velvety.]]

. We chewed the rope to make our nests. It frays, it stretches. It wasn't meant to last. They meant to come back.

So this is both embarrassing and enraging, and also, you know, dangerous, but you're also suddenly very uncomfortably aware that you haven't been laid since the Month of Songs. The woman's knee is just as bony, and it's pressing somewhere further down. Still, she's not actually that heavy, now that you're over the shock, and you could deal with this easily if it wasn't for whatever the fuck is wrapping around your ankles and wrists. "Oh, do stop struggling," the stranger says. "I'm not going to hurt you. This is just a little demonstration." "Of what?" you manage to gasp. She sits back, her center of weight no longer on top of you. She holds up a hand, and snaps her fingers. Light blooms in the warehouse, green and sickly. [[You can see what's holding you down now.]]

Roots. Thick, dark roots, shifting like living, growing things, flowing over your boots, over your coat. You can see your captor now, too. A sallow, angular woman with a smile like a razorblade. No bonecharms whispering to you from under her dark coat, but long-thorned roses twine around her shoulders. Witch. Fuck. "What do you want with me?" you ask. The roots aren't restricting your breathing just yet; one snakes around the collar of your coat but softly, almost tenderly. You have to fight back the urge to transverse, which would definitely break your bones at this point. Still, you're not out of options yet. She laughs. It's a rich, beautiful laugh. "I want to help you, Billie Lurk." Okay. She wants something from you. Something more than your immediate death or mugging. There's a knife up your sleeve, and you've managed to slide it down enough that you could start [[stabbing the roots that bind you.]] Alternatively you could keep listening.

There are others, of course. Witches, heretics, cultists. People with access to the Void. Some just collect bonecharms, or carve them themselves out of scrimshaw. Some are [[like Daud.]] But not really like him. No one has his kind of power, and they're usually pathetic mad creatures anyway. The Outsider isn't very strategic, you've sometimes thought, when picking his tools against the order of the Abbey. If someone's really using occult powers to pick off high level government figures, that's almost certainly going to interfere with the Whalers' operations. [[You're going to have to do something about this.]]

He took off his glove once. Showed you the Mark. Told you about a young man with black eyes who smells of rotting whale meat. You have a well-trained memory. That night you took a grease pencil and drew the strange lines on your own skin, and then you dreamed of- nothing. [[Well. Maybe not nothing. But not him.->Wouldn't you?]]

You could gather information. Hit up the usual sources of underworld information. Shake the black market dealers for client lists. Track down the scrimshaw traders. But there are quicker means. There's a cache hidden among the underbelly girders of Kaldwin's Bridge, and it takes you only a moment to put on the extra Whaler uniform, to pull the elastic of the mask around your skull. You can't help a small sigh of relief when the darkness settles around the eges of your vision again. Now it's time to search. If you reach out to the Void in just the right way, you can see other void-touched objects and people, even through walls. And you can cover ground fast. You stop by the black market in the Draper's Ward. Thomas is there, chatting with the proprietor. Terseley, you tell him to mobilize the Whalers. The gang's done this kind of operation before. It'll speed things up. [[But you hope you'll be the one to find this Masked Felon first.]]

The figure cuts a striking silhouette against the night. Slender, in a dark coat. Gloved hands. A skull-like mask, metallic and glinting. You close your eyes, reach into the Void, open your eyes again. The figure blazes. A silhouette wrought of gold fire, so bright it's blinding. You gasp, and your hands slip on the drainpipe, and your mind slips away from that other way of seeing, and now you're nearly blind, colored spots bursting on the surface of your eyeballs. "It's you," you whisper. It has to be. You've been waiting so long for this moment, and now it's here. Will you [[beg for his favor?]] Or [[ask him the questions that burn in your heart?]] Or perhaps [[scream at him for his cruelty?]] [[Or you could just crouch here on the wall, frozen and stupid.]]

Your throat is dry as paper, but you swallow, and whisper, [["Please."]]

[[Why does the Abbey hate him so?->Before]] [[What does he want with this world, really?->Before]] [[What happens to people when they die?->Before]] [[ With all his power, why doesn't he ever change things himself?->Before]] [[Why not me?->Before]]

Deirdre prayed to him, and he left her to die slowly, alone, in a gutter. He's not worthy of prayer. He's not worth anything. [[Now you have the chance to tell him that.]]

Open your mouth. Say something. Do something! You're not under some spell, you're just a stupid useless idiot. You're a killer. You're a Whaler. You're Billie Lurk. You're not afraid of anyone. Not even a god. [[Yeah right.]]

Before you get a chance to open your mouth, the figure puts a long thin finger to its own lips, or where the lips would be, on that metal skull. "Just listen," it says, and you're surprised; the voice is muffled by the mask, but still sounds human, doesn't reverbate with eldritch energies. There's a burst of black, and then the mass of shadow is crouched on the roof above you- and oh. This close, from this angle, even with the light of the polluted sky at its back, you can see this figure has the shape of a woman, not a man. Daud would have mentioned it if the bastard looked like a woman. Wouldn't he? Whoever this is, they're tilting their head, and you can feel the weight of an intense regard. "Which one are you, under there?" the voice rasps. "What's your name?" The Outsider wouldn't have to ask. This isn't him. This is just another desperate human, scrabbling for power. But she blazed so bright. "It doesn't matter," you hear yourself say. "I'm a Whaler. That's all you need to know." She extends a black-gloved hand. You glare at it, and [[transpose yourself onto the roof.]]

The figure puts a long thin finger to its own lips, or where the lips would be, on that metal skull. "Just listen," it says, and you're surprised; the voice is muffled by the mask, but still sounds human, doesn't reverbate with eldritch energies. There's a burst of black, and then the mass of shadow is crouched on the roof above you- and oh. This close, from this angle, even with the light of the polluted sky at its back, you can see this figure has the shape of a woman, not a man. Daud would have mentioned it if the bastard looked like a woman. Wouldn't he? Whoever this is, they're tilting their head, and you can feel the weight of an intense regard. "Which one are you, under there?" the voice rasps. "What's your name?" The Outsider wouldn't have to ask. This isn't him. This is just another desperate human, scrabbling for power. But she blazed so bright. "It doesn't matter," you hear yourself say. "I'm a Whaler. That's all you need to know." She extends a black-gloved hand. You glare at it, and [[transpose yourself onto the roof.]]

You're both crouched a few feet from each other now, on slippery cold roof tiles. Dawn is approaching, its pink fingers snaking up into the sky; behind her you can see the faint sparkle on the Wrenhaven. It's beautiful, in a way. There's a breeze, too, though it smells awful. She's still looking at you with that masked intensity. "Billie," she says. She sounds... tired? "I know it's you. Who else could it be?" [[She seems to have you at a disadvantage.]]

"It seems you've got me at a disadvantage." She laughs. It's not a real laugh, more of a snort, a brief moment of dark humor, but it's still shockingly incongruous with that metal face. "Yes," she says. "I do. Sorry about that." She sounds... posh. Really posh. And not that old. You'd guess she isn't much older than you, though it's hard to tell just from voice. You stare at her. "Well?" you demand, after a moment. "Well what?" "Are you going to tell me who you are and how you know me?" "No." Who the fuck does she think she is? [[This has gone far enough.]] Do you have enough patience left to listen a moment longer?

You lunge at her, knife drawn. She's gone quicker than you've ever seen anyone go, reflexes faster than blinking, leaving nothing but a black cloud that you fall through and your knee bangs against the cobbles and your body tumbles, momentum carrying you straight off the roof. Idiot. The night has been a strange one and you're more disoriented and panicked than you should be, and all you can see is the dawn sky above, and you try desperately to transpose but there's nothing solid to grab onto. You're going to hit the cobbles face first. [[If you're lucky.]] [[Any last thoughts, Billie Lurk?]]

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[[If you're unlucky, you'll hit a spiked fence.->This has gone far enough.]]

You were put in this world to kill one man, and you did it. You have no regrets. [[But this isn't the way you wanted to die.]]

Something catches you and yanks. You're tossed unceremoniously up onto the rooftop again, slammed into the tiles hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs and, it feels like, bruise your ribs. "Careful," the Masked Felon says. You're slow, scrambling to your feet. You're breathing hard. It's just tethering. You've done it yourself a million times with bottles, weapons, coins. And you've seen Daud do it to people. You shouldn't be this shaken. She has power, all right. This time you don't lunge. You move forward slowly. You touch the mask with your gloved hand, and reach for the edge, to pull it off. Her fingers wrap around your wrist. "Don't get involved with Delilah," she says. "Show me your face," you demand. But she steps back, and is gone in a drift of chilly black.

It takes several long, cold hours, but you [[find your quarry.->a dark figure]]

It only takes a few cuts for the root around your wrist to shrink back, writhing like something that can feel pain. You twist yourself around, stab at the other roots, and in a minute you're free. Your captor doesn't stop you, just laughs. As you transpose towards the square of light that must be the broken window, she says, "When you're ready to be done with him, you can find me in Brigmore." Whatever the fuck that means. You're not sticking around to learn more. You don't head back the way you came, but west towards the Legal District. Dawn is approaching, and the dock workers will be up soon, so you're a little more careful to stick to the shadows. [[Take a moment to catch your breath.]]

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For a while all you're aware of is the harshness of your breaths, the pounding of your heart. You don't hear any running footsteps, or the whoosh of displaced air. You don't think she's followed you. But after a while, you start to feel that someone's watching. [[Look up.->a dark figure]]