Chapter Text
Even through his leathers, from the feel of their hands around his upper arms, it was clear to Garrett that the soldiers hauling him down the spiral stairs had probably never properly looked after their gloves. The leather was cracked and stiff, creaking as they manhandled him forward, protesting as he pulled back.
Were they soldiers? Guards? He had never been quite clear on that, even when he had watched them from the hidden spots in Dunwall Tower. Their uniforms, those deep blue coats with the gold embroidery on the arms, their brisk march, the gold masks hiding their faces. It seemed to him that that was the case, that they were some kind of religious paramilitary force, Corvo had talked a lot about the Abbey of the Everyman since he and Garrett had crossed paths, but Garrett still understood very little of them. He had never been particularly interested.
He’d had his own experiences with ideological militias of course. Orion’s Graven were about as close to one as they could get, without devolving into full-blown religious zealotry. They had shown how dangerous it was to end up on the ‘wrong’ side, and he’d had no plans on getting himself mixed up with that kind of thing ever again. Plans meant nothing here.
He pulled back, although the effort was futile. What little energy that he had started the day with had long since disappeared, leaving him throwing his body weight around like a fish out of water, but without much strength behind the resistance. He had screamed. He had shouted. He had begged to be released and asked them, more times than he could count, why he was being detained.
Had they answered him?
Had they fuck.
His stomach churned as he pulled back and the man on his right tightened his grip, throwing him off balance. His ankle twisted beneath him and Garrett hissed, taking the opportunity to attempt an escape, beginning to turn, but they held on without issue. One yanked him back into place and his spine twisted painfully. His heart sank. It had been foolish to even try.
The air grew heavy and cold as they descended into the earth. His feet skipped over stone as his anxiety grew all-encompassing. He felt choked by the claustrophobia of the narrow stairwell, by the men standing so close to him, their hands pinching and leaving bruises on his arms. Dragging him down. Dragging him along.
He was so tired. He had barely eaten in a week, by now. Footsteps echoed off the walls, and after some time, they arrived at an arch, leading them out into a long corridor.
His heart rate spiked. Fear was a hole in his chest. He had been here - or somewhere similar - before. He didn’t know what had happened to Corvo, but he doubted that he would be able to appear and spirit him away like he had done before, and even if he did, what would the Abbey do to him? What had they done with him?
By all the gods he could think of, he wanted to scream , but his breath hitched in his throat. It threatened to choke him. What had he done to deserve this?
A moment passed, the hands had gone, and a firm palm on his back sent him crashing to the floor, the sudden lack of support rending him unstable. He gritted his teeth, then collected himself for long enough to scoot across the floor, away from the men who had dragged him down the stairs, backing himself into a corner, watching them carefully. His palms were clammy and slippery on the flagstones. His fear could be the difference between survival and being beaten on a good day; even though he was hungry and exhausted, he couldn’t afford to let his guard down now.
The guards appeared uninterested in hurting him any more than they had already done in dragging him here, and by the time Garrett had finished scrabbling across the floor, they had turned and started to file back out through the door. Their boots clicked on the ground for a moment before the door swung shut behind them, leaving him in near-total silence.
A moment passed as Garrett sat on the floor by himself, knuckles white, waiting for his heart to stop thumping and the combination of rage, panic and despondence to subside. The walls felt like they were closing in on him, suffocating him. He wasn’t sure exactly how long it had been since he had last seen Corvo, whether it had been hours or less than that, but the situation had changed so much, and so quickly, that it may as well have been months. His stomach churned. Had it been his fault that he now found himself in this predicament? Was there something he could have done to avoid this?
Of course there was. Just over a week ago, when he had resolved to steal Corvo’s blade, not realising how little he actually knew about Dunwall, the aristocracy, the factions at play here; he could have simply let it go, stayed sensible and thought about what might happen if things went wrong. It struck him that, way back then, in times that seemed more like years in the past than days, he assumed that the worst that could happen would be that he would be caught and locked up in a dungeon. He had discarded the idea offhandedly at the time, whether it was through arrogance and the belief that he simply couldn’t be caught (and why wouldn’t he think that, if he was The Master Thief?), or if he simply thought a night in the dungeons couldn’t be that bad.
How wrong he’d been.
What had changed in the last week that made his stay in a prison worse now than it would have before?
It was silly to worry about Corvo; he was the Emperor of the Isles. Nothing would be able to touch him. It baffled Garrett that he was still worrying over Corvo’s wellbeing.
Slowly, he calmed down enough to take stock of his surroundings. The room was dingy, but not dark. A light flickered above, in the centre of the ceiling, its buzz just loud enough to annoy him if he made an effort to listen out for it. The room was perfectly square, there were two cots, both at opposite ends of the room, and in the middle stood a sturdy-looking table with aged wooden chairs, warped with their age, the dampness in the air, or both.
The door that the guards had thrown him through was also wooden, but much sturdier than the chairs, and bound in iron. A square window seemed to have been cut at shoulder-height in the door, with bars spaced evenly, and a metal plate on the other side, preventing him from looking out into the corridor beyond. He assumed that the plate could be opened and closed as his captors saw fit.
He had not realised, up until now, that there was another person in the room. Although at that point, there was little reason to try and hide.
Garrett stood up slowly, gathering what little energy he had left to prepare himself for a fight, backing into a corner to protect himself.
The person was male, and wore a dark blue robe that came down to his knees, gold embroidery on the sleeves like the men who’d brought him here, with a simple belt, a hood that was lowered revealing a curly mess of ginger hair, and a baggy pair of black trousers. He sat on a chair near the door, leaning backwards, absorbed in a book that he held with one hand, his other arm draping over the back of the chair. He was still, as if he’d been frozen, and made no indication that he’d even noticed Garrett’s presence.
A minute passed, then another. Garrett’s body held so much tension that it ached. The man turned a page in his book, continued to read for a moment, then sighed, folded over a corner, and snapped the book shut, holding it in his lap.
“You don’t have to act like I’m going to fight you. I’m not, and your staring is annoying me.”
The statement took Garrett aback. Annoyance was not what he’d expected. Hostility, violence, aggression, maybe. Not simple annoyance.
There was a moment of silence before Garrett spoke. “Are you a prisoner?”
The man scoffed. “No. Do I look like a prisoner? I’m a guard. I’m with the Abbey. I’m here to keep an eye on you.”
Garrett narrowed his eyes. “You don’t look like a guard either.”
“If you think that, then good. Maybe it’ll make my job easier.”
“What’s your name, guard?”
The man looked at him for a moment, then rolled his eyes. “If it’ll shut you up, my name is Frederick.”
Garrett remained on his guard for a few seconds as Frederick watched him, then slowly allowed himself to relax. His back, shoulders and arms ached from the tension. He rubbed the base of his neck with one hand, looking around.
“Can I call you Fred?”
“No, you may not,” said Fred, before he went back to reading.
Garrett relaxed a little and looked around the room. There were, in fact, two doors set in the bare brick walls. A second one stood opposite the iron-bound door through which he had been thrown. He glanced back at Fred momentarily, looking for some indication of whether he was allowed to try this door, then went through with it anyway.
The door led through to a smaller, rectangular room, clad in brick like the larger cell, with a wash basin, a toilet, and a shower head bolted to the wall, separated from the rest of the room with an indented section in the floor, a drain, and a rail that ran the perimeter of the shower area. It looked like there should have been a curtain attached to the rail, but it was conspicuously missing. Similar to the cell, there were no windows of any kind (presumably, being underground, this made sense), and upon rigorous inspection of the brick structure, there were no weaknesses in the cement that held it all together. Likewise, a single flickering light sat bolted to the ceiling in the middle of the room, its low hum penetrating the thick, dank air.
When he was satisfied that there were no plausible means of escape from the attached bathroom, Garrett returned to the cell where Fred still sat, reading quietly to himself, and sat down on one of the cots, leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees, thinking. He wondered if it was worth waiting a day or so to attempt his escape; if Fred was the only one standing between Garrett and his freedom, there must be a weakness to exploit. Would Fred be rotated with some other guard, or working all day, every day constitute Abbey membership? He looked over at Fred for a moment, watching him intently. If one thing was sure in life, it was that basic needs such as rest needed to be met, and if not, it would only be so long before he started to make mistakes.
There was a sharp sound by the door, the screech of rusted metal on metal. Garrett tensed, unsure of what he should do for a moment, the thought of fleeing passed his mind in no small intensity, before the metal plate beyond the bars of the door shifted, letting him see into the corridor beyond. A man wearing the gold mask of the Abbey looked through for a moment, checking on what Garrett was doing, before a key scraped in the lock and the door shuddered open, moaning as it scraped across the floor.
Garrett got to his feet, preparing to run. If this other man had come to hurt him, he could only try and protect himself by bolting himself in the other room. Fred continued to read, unfazed.
Instead of moving in Garrett’s direction, he tossed a small pile of folded fabric in Garrett’s general direction, and there was a soft whumph as it landed at the foot of the cot. Garrett stood still, staring at the man in the gold mask. In the corridor beyond, there stood two other Overseers, wearing the same music box-type device that those accompanying him to the tower had worn earlier that day. The memory of the agony he had experienced while subjected to their music had him cringing.
“Put that on,” he said, “Someone will return in a few minutes to process you.” His voice was brisk, but not hostile. There was another creak as the door swung shut, then a snap as the metal plate covering the bars was closed again, shutting off his view of the outside.
Garrett sat there for a moment, unsure of what to make of the situation. There would be very little he could do about regaining his freedom - for now, anyway - so would it be best simply to play along for the time being? Nobody had come to beat him yet, which was probably a good sign. He got to his feet, very slowly, and suddenly became cognisant of how badly his joints ached as he stood. He took another moment to regain his bearings, ignoring the dizziness that washed over him, then collected the pile of clothing.
There was a light brown shirt and pair of trousers, both made up of cambric. The sleeves of the shirt were loose and came down to the middle of his forearms, with a v-shaped neck and a fraying hem. The trousers were similarly baggy, too large for him, but adjustable around the waist. His throat tightened at the thought of having to remove and give away his leathers. He bit his lip.
“Get on with it, then,” said Fred from the other side of the room. The book was already closed, sitting in his lap like it had been doing before. Garrett had been so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he hadn’t noticed when Fred had moved. He looked over at him, tried to think up a witty, cutting remark, then gave up.
“And if I don’t?”
“You really think you have a choice?” said Fred, and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.
It really did seem like he didn’t have a choice.
Garrett walked to the attached bathroom and closed the door behind him. The place was dingy, just like the main cell area, leaving the room looking dirty and unkempt. He reached around to the back of his harness and unlaced it, feeling it fall away from his torso, then unlaced the rest of the leather. Pulled the cloak over his shoulder and down where he discarded it on the floor. The rest of the fabric went with it and pooled around his ankles like black smoke.
Seeing his own body shocked him. Near-white flesh was mottled with dark bruising stretching across his chest, down his arms, past his hips and then towards his knees. Stretching to see his own body in the dim light of the room, he found it on his shoulders, his back, his calves, like he had been beaten to within an inch of his life. He racked his brains, searching for some explanation. The only plausible reasoning that he could find was the music from the Overseers’ boxes that he had been subjected to. Seeing it laid bare seemed even worse than it had felt. He didn’t know how or why it had had that effect on him - it was something he had never experienced before in his life and hoped never to again - but even looking at the outcome made him uneasy. It made him feel vulnerable. Weak. The hunger and pain, he was used to that. But he didn’t like seeing himself injured, and he especially didn’t like seeing himself in something as flimsy as thin fabric.
He donned the cambric shirt and trousers with haste, then folded up his leathers and took them into his arms. Some corner of the cloak escaped and hung down past his arm. He took it in one hand, rubbing it between his fingers, losing himself in the softness.
If anything, he was glad that there wasn’t a mirror. Being forced to observe his own weakness, his own incapability felt like it would be too much at this point.
He took a moment to collect himself. And then, he returned to the cell, where two Overseers waited for him.
Since he had woken, Corvo had been pacing in the laboratory room, looking out through the windows onto Dunwall city, and clenching his fists in frustration.
Smoke still drifted across the Wrenhaven, although most of the fires had burnt out by now with the arrival of a storm, which he had slept through fitfully. Rain still pattered on the windows and the skylights, drumming without rhythm. The screaming had since died down, such that even if he opened the windows, all was quiet save for the rain and the shouting of Overseers down in the courtyard.
He knew he should have been less worried now, that the worst of the damage inflicted by the Abbey was naturally being quelled by the rain. They had made their point. They had what they wanted; a fully compliant Emperor willing to do their bidding in whatever legislation they so desired, and if it was good for his people (in the short-term, at least), then it should be good for him.
It wasn’t.
He hadn’t heard from or of Garrett since the morning before. A night of drugged sleep and a few mouthfuls of food had done little to help him calm down, or improve his clarity of thought, despite Hypatia’s assurances. She and Sokolov had been watching him apprehensively on and off throughout the morning, as they plotted quietly in one corner of the room.
After some time, Corvo relented and joined them. He pulled up a chair with a scrape, turned it around so it was facing away from the table, then sat on it, leaning over the back with a sigh.
Sokolov drummed his fingers on the table, his eyes vacant. Corvo knew that look very well. He was thinking something over, going over details and caveats with a mental fine-toothed comb. What he was plotting was unknown to Corvo - he didn’t make a habit of asking Sokolov what he was thinking about these days. Those conversations were too liable to turn into lectures.
Hypatia looked at him intently, and drew in a breath as if she were about to say something, then held it, reconsidering. Corvo raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue. She took a moment to reformulate her statement, then continued.
“We need to think of a plan.”
Corvo nodded slowly. The vertebrae in his neck creaked and ached. The bruising caused by the music boxes had gone down slightly overnight, but it still pained him, especially in his joints. “Where do we start?”
Hypatia stood up, fiddling with a well-worn stick of chalk that left white marks as she passed it from one hand to the other. A chalkboard stood just to the side of the table, covered in diagrams and equations. She pulled on the bottom of the chalkboard, and it swung around, revealing a fresh side that looked like it had been cleaned in a hurry. She raised the stick of chalk, paused as she considered what to write, then gave up and looked back at Corvo.
“We know that all our problems here come down to the Abbey,” he said as Sokolov finally raised his head and began to pay attention. “I need to get my daughter back, I need to regain control of the Isles, and I need to get Garrett back.”
Hypatia stood for a moment, then turned and wrote “Abbey ” in capitals in the centre of the chalkboard. She circled it, then wrote three things underneath, circling them as she went: “E. Kaldwin”, “Isles”, and “Garrett”. She connected them as she went.
“We can’t take the whole Abbey on by ourselves,” Sokolov mused, talking more to himself than to anyone else in the room. Corvo nodded in agreement nonetheless.
“There are too many of them. I think they’ve been growing in numbers, they wouldn’t have had the manpower to subdue the whole of Dunwall if they hadn’t.”
It was true. As far as Corvo had been aware, their manpower had been easily one-tenth the number they needed to exert such control over the capital of Gristol. It was likely that they had been recruiting behind his back for a long time now. A pang of guilt hit him. He should have been aware of this. He had been allowing it to continue right under his nose.
“I was… given something by a friend,” Corvo said, suddenly remembering the disc that Suleiman had given him several days ago. He got up, retrieved it from under his bed, then returned to the table, holding it out. Something about the room made him feel safe. He hadn’t removed the disc from under the cloth wrap on his hand since he had been given it.
“And this is…?” Hypatia asked, taking the disc and turning it over in her hands. It shone bronze in the fluorescent lighting, indentations on it glowing at the edges as they caught the light, highlighted in shadow.
“I don’t know. I think it’s a key. But I was given it by someone who assured me that they knew how to counteract Emily’s… state.”
“Where is this person?” Hypatia asked.
“He… he passed,” Corvo said, feeling a lump come to his throat as he went back to that night out in the back garden of Hallewell Manor, the garden fork, the smell of blood, Suleiman’s wry smile as he shuffled off this mortal coil. “But I believe there’s more information to be found, and that is the key.” He pointed at the disc, then fell into silence.
“Any idea what it’s for?” Sokolov asked, taking it off Hypatia and studying it intently.
“No, but I think I might be able to work it out if I go to his home. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s under heavy guard, though. I’m sure the Abbey would be more than happy to label it heresy.”
Hypatia grunted, then wrote “disc ” on the chalkboard, beneath Emily’s name.
“Anything else?”
“I--”
Corvo hadn’t managed to get the words out of his mouth before he jumped at brisk rap on the door to the lab, swiftly accompanied by silence. He, Hypatia and Sokolov looked at each other for a moment with apprehension.
Corvo couldn’t imagine who would be interested in visiting Hypatia’s lab right now.
There was another knock.
Hypatia eventually rose from her seat and walked to the door, accompanied by Corvo, despite her telling him to stay away. He stood a little further back from the door as she opened it, so he would have a good chance of taking out whoever it was, if they did so want to hurt Hypatia or himself. Sokolov leant backwards in his chair, craning his neck to get a good look.
Hypatia swung the door open, and on the other side stood a diminutive man with small, round spectacles, a bald head, and a dark blue shirt with the symbol of the Abbey embroidered on the sleeves. He looked up at Hypatia, smiled dryly, and nodded his head in a half-bow.
“Dr. Hypatia, is it?”
He waited for a response, and Hypatia nodded slowly in confirmation.
He continued. His voice was clipped, but not unpleasant. He sounded like a bureaucrat, rather more interested in political process than actual progress, although Corvo believed he was reading too much into such an irrelevant detail. “My name is Iliad Mosseye. I’m an Elder in the Abbey. I’ve been instructed to come and have a discussion with Emperor Corvo Attano regarding Imperial matters.”
At least they didn’t outright deny Corvo’s status as Emperor. It was something to work with, at least.
Hypatia raised an eyebrow, then turned around and looked expectantly at Corvo. Similarly, Mosseye waited patiently for Corvo to respond.
“Fine,” Corvo said, walking to the door as Hypatia turned and left, heading back to the table where she sat with Sokolov. “What do you want?”
“Let us step outside for a moment.”
Corvo followed Mosseye as he turned and left through the door, shutting it behind him. He couldn’t help but feel anxious at the concept of having to leave the lab by himself with Mosseye, but what could they possibly do to him? Kidnap him too? He still held the power, it would be fruitless to try anything drastic.
They ended up on a balcony overlooking the Wrenhaven river. Corvo knew that, given a few minutes, enough will, and maybe a pair of binoculars, he would be able to see the old Hound Pits Pub from here. He refrained. He didn’t want to revisit that part of his life again. He shivered. A chill wind blew in from across the water.
“I understand we have something of value to you,” Mosseye said when he was satisfied that they were alone on the balcony. His voice held no malice; in fact, it was difficult to extract any emotion at all from it.
Corvo resisted turning on Mosseye as his heart began to thump. He needed to play this right. He couldn’t act rashly. “What do you mean?”
Mosseye sighed, and leaned over the balcony, mirroring Corvo’s posture. “Listen. I disagree with Zharkov as much as you do. I want our relationship to be amicable, because I think it can be mutually beneficial. As Emperor, you have power that would be useful to us, the Abbey, and if my superiors think this is the best way to get it, then it’s not really my job to ask questions.”
Corvo scoffed and looked at him. “What else could you possibly want?”
“Nothing, yet. We have a draft of some legislation that we’d like you to consider. We’d appreciate your co-operation in these difficult times.”
A moment passed. The wind blew slightly harder, and Corvo wondered if he would be able to get away with throwing Mosseye over the balcony.
“Where…”
“Don’t you worry about him,” Mosseye said, cutting Corvo off before he’d finished the sentence. “We’ll take very good care of him, I promise.”
“And why should I believe you?”
“I’m sure you can work out why it would be beneficial for our relationship to keep your friend healthy and safe,” Mosseye said.
“You’re blackmailing me.”
Mosseye shrugged and turned towards the door, although his voice sounded slightly softer when he spoke. “It’s just business.”
“You murdered my closest allies, my friends. How is that just business? ”
“Someone will be in touch with you soon with more information on what we expect of you. I trust we’ll find you in the same place.”
And then he was gone.
A moment passed, and Corvo stood alone on the balcony high above the Wrenhaven river, shrouded in smoke. Rain whipped his face. And blood oozed from in-between his knuckles as his fist made contact with the wall.