Work Text:
"She was dying in the Month of Songs
Struck by a disease from the East"
-Death in the Month of Songs
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Dunwall had been a proud city, a strong city, the industrial powerhouse of the Empire, but looking at the decay around him it was hard to believe. The slums were overflowing with the poor, causing the economy to slow, along with the decreasing whale hauls and competing imports flooding in from the likes of Morley and Tyvia compounding the sorry situation.
The Empress was a kind woman, but during times like this the Empire needed strong leadership, not a woman’s kindness. What was the kindness even doing? All the poverty relief schemes were just encouraging the poor to breed like rats, while the upper classes had to mop up the mess. If it weren’t for them the Empire would have collapsed by now with Jessamine Kauldwin’s ineffective leadership.
Burrows had the right idea; he was smart enough to realize what the city needed and ruthless enough to enact it. He’d been destined to do great things; he knew it from since he’d met then man at the diplomatic functions he’d attended in the Tower. It only made sense to ally with him, to finally earn the position on the Watch that he deserved because of family name and tireless work with the Lower Watch scum. Had he really attended the best military schools in the Empire to training the dregs of Coldridge?
The instructions were clear; they came straight from Burrow’s himself and were almost pedantic in their precision. Smuggle the marked box from the hold of the Pendleton Mining ship into the slums around the Distillery District. Don’t draw attention, move quickly and release the cargo in the deepest part of the poverty and squalor in the dead of night.
Although two Lower Watch morons he’d entrusted to carry the cargo box didn’t seem to have even the slightest understanding of discretion; apparently they thought it meant bicker loudly like a pair of fishwives at the market. Actually, come to think of it, the fishwives were far more eloquent. He thought they would have disciplined the Coldridge out of them by now, but apparently some people could never have the competence beaten into them no matter how hard you try.
He lead them deeper into the slums, the open streets near Clavering and the docks giving way the claustrophobic paths weaving through the slums, the dilapidated buildings a mess of wood and poor construction, stark contrast to the uniformity strength of the richer districts. Would it really be that hard for people to maintain their homes? Poverty alleviation couldn’t tackle the poor’s lazy mindset, if they spent as much money on their homes as they did cheap booze and dogfights they might be able to make something of themselves.
The acrid stench of bootleg whiskey, cheap cigarettes and filth, cutting through he senses, making his eyes water and leaving a bitter taste in the back of his throat. Their boots fell and squelched as they were sucked deep into the mud and- actually, best not dwell on what the sludge might consist of. They’d avoided the Bottle Street boys and no one else dared raise an eyebrow about the City Watch passing through, they knew better than that.
They were finally deep enough into the poorer areas to open the crate, which was perfect as his patience with the men carrying the box had all but vanished after hours of listening their petty squabbles and complaints. They’d been quiet for quite a while by this point, he wondered when the next spat would begin; he didn’t have to wait long. Damn, if only there had been someone else around to bet with, might have won some whiskey and cigars.
“Will you pull you’re damn fucking weight you lazy bastard! Might as well be carryin this thing on my own for all the use you are!” one of the Lower Watchmen growled.
“ME! YOU’RE THE LAZY BASTARD-“ as one of the men turned on his heel to face his companion, forgetting the crate he was tasked with carrying. With that the crate lurched towards the ground while they were distracted by their shouting match; they didn’t seem to notice it slipping out of their hands. The crash and creak of splitting wood echoing through the alley.
They paused their argument for long enough to see the crated they’d been entrusted with crack open and the contents flood out, a wave of fur and beady eyes, the air filling with scraping and a scent even more vile than their current surroundings.
“Rats, what the-“
He didn’t have the chance to finish; the rats swarmed them in an instant. It was almost magical how quickly they overwhelmed the men, launching themselves at them to knock them to the ground. Moving as one nebulous being, drowning them in fur, claws and teeth.
The air thickened as it filled with the tang of blood while the vermin ripped the flesh from their bones. The scratching and squeaks distorted into a slimier sound as the blood began to pool in the cobbles and their fur became slick. They were deep enough into the slums that no one would care about the screams, besides they were silenced at a staggering speed. The rats were efficient in their mob killing.
They went to bring him down, one of the rats seeming to fly towards his chest. He reached for his sword and started hacking and swinging wildly in the direction of the swarm, it proved enough of a distraction to grant him reprieve. He made to run towards the mouth of the alley.
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He escaped, with only a few bites to show for it. When the air pouring into his lungs stung less and his heart stopped pounding, he thought about how the rats had saved him a couple of bullets. It wasn’t what Burrows had planned, but the results were effective enough.
A few weeks later as his weight dropped and hair began to fall out he thought it might be time to take some leave. His comrades had mentioned the pallor of his skin and chalked it up to stress of leading his new squad.
The cough was probably just the product of working in the filthy air of the Distillery District. By the time blood had stared to weep from his eyes, he didn’t even remember his squad.