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Corvo escapes the pit easily enough. The Whalers have made the area nearly impassible to someone without the ability to Transverse or Blink, but Corvo thrives in taking advantage of that nearly. They're skilled, but complacent.
He ventures down and tries to find an exit that won't make him pass the guards. He finds some of Piero's Remedy, which is appreciated but useless. Next to it is a vial of Sokolov's Elixir, which is infinitely more useful. He downs the whole vial and pain ebbs away. His head clears like he's been gulping down ice water, an ache behind his eyes and jaw. The Elixir smells mineral-thick, like mud on the edges of the Wrenhaven. Sharper. He'd never enjoy it, but he'd quickly grown to tolerate it.
Corvo leaves the empty vial where he'd found it and goes for the stairs again.
He'd killed Campbell, of course, and the Pendletons, even though he dallied with Slackjaw and could have easily left them to a worse fate than a knife in the ribs. With Emily back, he could afford to be merciful.
He is not merciful now, even though he would like nothing more than to see no more death. He moves through the guards with the same shell-shocked numbness that saw him escaping from Coldridge. As much as he dearly wants to avoid the refinery-- avoid proving the Outsider right-- he knows he must go there. He has no luck of defeating Daud or even his men without two working hands, not as he is right now. Maybe only a few hours ago-- unpoisoned, buoyed up by the promise of Emily's coronation, ready to bring down an entire army if it was asked of him, anything anything for Emily, and not... Now.
Having lost her again. His own thoughts are poisoned.
His own thoughts are poisoned, so he pushes them aside and listens in on the Whalers loitering at the refinery before clambering up once they transverse away and making his way down into the cavernous interior.
His severed hand sits in a puddle of brackish, blue-slicked water. He expects it to have been gnawed by rats or worse, but it's surprisingly untouched. He leans down to pick it up; the second his fingers brush the clammy flesh of his hand, the world bends. The lustrous blue of whale oil spreads out and crawls up, unfurling into a luminous purple. The refinery fades away into chunks of floating stone and the flickers of far-off streetlamps. Corvo nearly growls, but even more than that is a desire to scream. He doesn't have time for this! What more could the Outsider possibly want from him?
He'd get an answer soon enough, he supposes, and looks up.
He expects the Outsider. The Outsider does not materialize, does not speak from the Void around Corvo, does not appear to be present in the deep lowing of a whale far in the distance; weeping, Corvo imagines, for the refinery's oil streaking the thick air of the Void.
His hand jumps out of his grip like a thing possessed and he, despite himself, barks out a startled grunt. Threads of what looks like the Void itself leap from the edges and continue until the whole open bleeding edge of the hand is consumed by wriggling black threads. They lurch forward; pierce into his stump, yank him forward so forcefully he takes a step to avoid falling. It should hurt, he knows this. He should be screaming. He's too numb to do more than watch as the Void knits his body back to his hand. The lowing of the whale is lost in the rush of blood in Corvo's ears and his hissing breaths, pulled through clenched teeth, and he clenches his eyes shut and collapses to his knees. Water splashes and soaks through his pants, his knees stinging from the sudden collision with the ground, and when he opens his eyes again he's still holding his arm straight out but he's in the refinery again.
Corvo frowns and clenches his hand a few times, testing. A faint purple line circles his wrist but other than that his arm looks like nothing untoward has happened to it within the past few hours.
Corvo laughs, tired, exhausted, and it hitches into a sob.