Chapter Text
When histories say “peace” they mean “dead.” No one ever brought peace.
MAKAROV KNOWS YURI.
Where do I even begin.
Mission was a fuckin failure . Just like Ukraine. Just like the Caucasus and Afghanistan. Makarov always one step ahead. He knew we were coming and we barely managed to escape before the S.O.B. blew the hotel, the church, and Kamarov sky-high.
Should’ve known something was off when Makarov looked right at me. Should’ve known when Kamarov didn’t pick up the radio. FAILURE INEXCUSABLE.
Makarov addressed us on the radio before it happened. First he talked to Price, said some shit in Russian I didn’t understand. Then he talked to Yuri. Addressed him by name. Called him “friend.”
THE BASTARDS KNEW EACH OTHER.
Yuri knew Makarov and hid it from us. Knew him personally. Traitor? Or something else?
Can’t do shit about it now. It’s in Price’s hands, wherever he is.
I’m not in Prague anymore. Not in Europe or even in my own world. Some kind of parallel Earth where everything is different. Different countries, different people, different year.
Eight days ago I fell from the church tower and was certain that I was a goner. Survived the fall itself, but banged up bad. Wound from Shepherd encounter reopened, ribs broken, most likely ruptured something. Internal bleeding probably. Don’t remember much except bits of the journey, the safehouse, Price screaming. So sure I was dead. Passed out in Prague, Czech Republic, 2016.
Woke up in Dunwall, Empire of the Isles, 1837.
Impossible. Happened anyway.
Don’t remember how I got here - I passed out in the safehouse and woke up in an alley in the middle of a quarantine zone. Wandered for a few hours and entered the first open building I could find, the Hound Pits Pub. Almost got shot. Residents gave me a bath and some food instead.
The residents of the pub filled me in. I came at the best time - whole city’s gone to shit. Citizens dropping like flies from plague left and right for two years now, Empress died seven months ago and the heir is missing, and the current ruling body is incompetent and corrupt. Everything’s fucked. People are rioting and starving and dying in the streets. Whole districts shut down, a third of the population dead. Law enforcement equivalent to gangs. Government doesn’t seem to care.
Me? I wound up in the hands of a conspiracy.
At least they all speak English.
They call themselves Loyalists. They say that their goal is to overthrow the current ruler (the Lord Regent), find the Empress’s missing daughter, and put her on the throne to restore the family line. Apparently she’s just a kid, but they’d rather take their chances with a child Empress than continue to rot under the Lord Regent. I don’t blame ‘em.
They’ve got a few notable names here from what I understand. The ringleader is Admiral Havelock. I’m told he had an impressive career in the Navy before something happened with the regent and it was cut short. Then there’s Overseer Martin, the conspiracy’s strategist and eyes and ears inside the Empire’s dominant religious faction. There’s Lord Pendleton, an aristocrat whose family has considerable influence in the political world and the world of nobility, from what I gather. Then there’s Corvo Attano.
Corvo’s an interesting one. Former bodyguard to the Empress and her daughter, I’m told he was framed for the Empress’s murder and the kidnapping of her daughter. He was imprisoned for sixth months, then was broken out by the Conspiracy. He serves as their assassin.
What happened to him and to the Empress and her daughter fucked with him big time. We share a room. It takes him forever to fall asleep and I hear him crying out at night. He’s quiet and jumpy. I don’t ask and I don’t plan to.
Then there’s others. Piero, the engineer and “natural philospher” (scientist???). Lydia, Wallace, and Cecelia, the servants. Callista, the...governess? Not quite sure what she’s here for. And now there’s me.
Looks like I’m the FNG all over again. And today, I got me a fresh FNJ.
Took me eight days to realize I’d lost my journal. Eight bloody days. I lost a lot of stuff between passing out in Prague and waking up here, but that journal hit hard. Lots of memories in that journal. Lost. But Corvo was kind enough to fetch me a new one. A gift a friendship offering. I didn’t know how to express my appreciation so we just had a smoke together. He’s sitting on the bed in the attic now, writing in his own journal.
Wonder what he’s thinking.
A lot’s happened since I came here but I’m not gonna get into it now. This whole situation’s giving me a fucking headache.