The Scarred Rat (A Dishonored Fanfiction)

Chapter One | The Surge

My back slams against the wall as I am kicked down, and I back up into the corner of the alleyway, trying to get as far away from the two men as I can. They trap me there, and through the continual flashes of lightning, I see the smirks on their faces, along with the splattered blood on their cheeks and foreheads. They look insane with how happy they are. One of them raises his clean cleaver to the stormy sky. As he cuts it down toward me, I scream.

However, my scream is cutoff when I feel a gloved hand press against my mouth. Snapping open my eyes, I see a masked man standing beside my bed. Simply out of reflex, I grab my dagger from beneath my pillow and cut through his coat's sleeve to his skin. He lets out a curse, to my satisfaction, as he backs away from me, holding his arm where his brand new wound is. That satisfaction is instantly ripped away from me as another man rushes into my small, previously demolished room. I lift my right hand to wound him with my dagger as well, but he seems more prepared; as my dagger closes in toward his upper arm, the man skillfully disarms me by slamming his hand hard into my own. As my dagger clatters on the old floorboards, the man spins me around and yanks my arms behind my back. I gasp at his tight grasp and the pain from the awkward position of my arms.

"Did you get her yet?" I look over my shoulder and see another man, dressed the same exact way as the other ones, enter my room and stand at the entrance.

I take a moment - however how agonizing it is - to look at his appearance: he is wearing a long, dark gray jacket, black boots that go up to his knees, thick gloves, and a golden  mask with a symbol that looks like a crescent with a trident passing through it horizontally on the forehead. The symbol is also on both of the jacket's sleeve, large and in gold thread. It is impossible to see any glimpse of skin beneath all that he wears.

These three men are unmistakably Overseers.

"It would have been easier if we just killed her like the rest of them," grumbles the Overseer I had cut. His hand is still on his wound.

"Or we can keep her constrained and ask her where Daud has gone," the one near the entrance responds bitterly. "She's just a girl, and she doesn't even have her own whaler mask. I can see in her vulnerable, dark green eyes that her attitude is strong, but her heart is weak."

Although I cannot see his eyes because of his mask and the dimness in the room from the night, I am conscious of him staring at me, scrutinizing my eyes' every blink, my cheeks' every twitch. A swirl of foreboding enters from within me as I realize what position I am in. Overseers, people who devote their lives to punish those who worship a supernatural being called the Outsider, have invaded Daud's hideout, deep in the Flooded District. They have already killed several whalers throughout the area. And they are looking for Daud.

"Bind her wrists," the staring Overseer orders.

The two other men work together to keep my wrists together and bind them tightly while I fight to get free. Their teamwork is unfortunately well coordinated, however, as they quickly secure a leather rope around my wrists.

"Move along, girl." I am shoved forward and have no other choice but to follow the Overseers out of my room and onto the tin walkway up to the hideout's central point.

As we walk along, I am horrified to see Overseers swarming all over the place, as well as some wolfhounds trailing after one or two men. Whalers are slumped over against walls or lying still on the floor, some with bullets protruding out of their chests. I suppress a gasp as we pass an assassin sitting against a wall, his head hanging, with two bullets in his chest. I must have stopped and stared at him, because I am once again shoved to continue walking.

The Overseers take me into an abandoned building filled with crates of weapons and ammunition. A large map hangs on the wall, flanked by two red banners with the golden Overseer symbol. Another map, smaller yet similar to the other, lays on a table. I have no time to figure out what the markings on them mean before we start climbing up a set of stairs. With the top floor empty, save for an old bench and two knocked down paintings, we cross another tin walkway to yet another abandoned building.