Aubrey spent the morning lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling while scrolling through the various skill trees displayed by the System. She had already distributed the attribute points she got from gaining a rank-up.
She opted to increase her Tempo and Riff attributes by one grade each. Having more speed meant having more survivability when things went south. But most importantly, she wanted to get around faster. As for Riff, she didn't know exactly what it was used for, but the description made it sound like it measured her improv.
No way its low grading could be right. Improvisation was one of her ace cards. She had to remedy that.
[Increasing your Tempo attribute enhances your agility, dodge chance, and hit rate. It also decreases the cast time of skills and abilities.]
[Increasing your Riff attribute decreases the cooldown of skills and abilities. It also increases your critical chance as well as the success rate of skill-cancels.]
Skill-cancels? Why would she ever cancel her skills?
There was probably more to it, but she’ll dive down that rabbit hole later. She decided to continue on and check her status window:
[Name: Aubrey]
[Race: Revenant]
[Variant: Banshee]
[Rank: Andante]
[Attribute: Grade]
[Tempo: D] ⇧
[Dynamics: B]
[Timbre: D]
[Pitch: C]
[Harmony: E]
[Resonance: E]
[Cadence: D]
[Riff: E] ⇧
Now, she just had to spend the talent points and ability points. There were a lot of options to choose from and so many directions she could go. Unlocking Tier 2 skills only required her to have achieved the Rank of Andante and have one Tier 1 skill for that particular branch.
After spending an hour ruminating and deliberating, she decided on the following skills:
[Sonorous Counterpoint (Sonata Path, Tier 2, Active Skill): A counter-attack skill that activates upon a successful parry, dealing damage and disorienting your opponent. Cooldown: 10 seconds]
[Veil of the Hidden Stretto (Fugue Journey, Tier 2, Passive Skill): Enhances stealth capabilities, making you harder to detect when moving.]
The second one would be especially useful for snooping around the Blackwell factories. Plus being stealthier always helped in other situations. She got into enough trouble as is. The more ways to evade authorities or escape dangerous situations the better.
For her Banshee abilities, she chose one from each branch:
[Dissonant Chord (Banshee's Lament, Tier 2, Active Ability): Emits a dissonant note that confuses a single enemy, making them attack their allies for 18 seconds. Cooldown: 30 seconds]
[Warrior's Hymn (Banshee's Aria, Tier 2, Active Ability): Increases attack power by a moderate amount for you and all allies within twenty meters. Duration: 40 seconds. Cooldown: 90 seconds]
Both of these should come in handy in various situations. And Aubrey found herself in various situations pretty often lately.
Having finalized her selection, she closed her interface.
Her thoughts drifted to the events from the night before. The creature and Shorty. She had so many questions, but no answers. Just who or what could have transformed Shorty into an Unhallowed? And how?
She headed downstairs and made her way towards Cedric, finding the gargoyle doing his usual round of maintenance work within the Cathedral. He polished the various religious artifacts and statues, cleaning them meticulously with his rough, stony hands.
How the hell did that work?
"Hey Ceddy," Aubrey greeted.
"Aubrey," the gargoyle acknowledged.
"Question."
"Answer?"
"What the hell is an Unhallowed?"
Cedric paused mid-polishing and placed the artifact he had been attending to. He turned around to face Aubrey. "It is a label that humans use to describe creatures such as us," Cedric replied, gesturing at himself and then at Aubrey.
"Creatures like us?" Aubrey asked.
"Yes. Creatures whose origins lay in the realm beyond. Creatures touched by eldritch energies. Creatures whose forms and natures violate the natural order. Monsters," Cedric explained solemnly.
"‘Tis a shameful moniker. Though fitting," Thaddeus chimed in, startling Aubrey. The automaton sauntered towards them, his clockwork parts and gears whirring and clicking with every step.
"Damn it, Thaddy. Wear a bell or something," Aubrey scolded.
"My apologies. But ye raised a curious inquiry. I do wonder: Is thou experiencing difficulty assimilating with humankind? Are thy monstrous urges threatening to expose thee?" Thaddeus inquired, cocking his brass head to the side.
Aubrey didn't appreciate the insinuation. Sure. She had violent tendencies and impulses. And yes. She did have murderous thoughts regarding the four people involved in her death. That didn't make her a monster.
"Nope. It just got me thinking, since last night I saw someone turn into a tentacle monster out of the blue. Any idea what the hell's up with that?" Aubrey countered.
Cedric and Thaddeus exchanged glances. Cedric spoke first. "I have picked up on rumors over the years about Eldritch cultists performing rituals and converting members into Unhallowed. Perhaps the individual you saw was one such victim."
Thaddeus chimed in next. "Verily, 'tis a nefarious practice. Yet, 'tis also believed that conversion is a voluntary process. Meaning that whoever underwent such procedure did so willingly. Tis the belief that eldritch energies offer salvation, and greater power. A foolhardy and misguided notion."
Huh. Cultists and eldritch energies. Great combination. Aubrey knew jackshit about such groups. She did recall those graverobbers mentioning something about a Twilight Cabal. Could that have connections to this eldritch stuff?
Maybe she'd dig deeper.
"So. These cultists convert folks. Turn them into monsters. Why? For what reason?"
"Power. Corruption. Perversion. Deviancy," Thaddeus responded. "All reasons attributed to wicked beings. Tis a despicable practice. Those converted lose their sense of self and transform into monsters driven only by a desire for violence and destruction."
That aligned with what Aubrey had seen. Shorty initially didn't exhibit signs of aggression, but soon after the transformation, he attacked everyone indiscriminately.
A memory flashed within her head, and she recalled Shorty's flesh shimmering moments before he transformed. She described the phenomenon to Cedric and Thaddeus.
Both exchanged knowing looks.
"Could've been an activation catalyst. Such a thing can trigger a transformation," Cedric surmised.
"Verily. An incantation uttered in tongues. An object wielding eldritch properties. Even emotions and stimuli can invoke such a response," Thaddeus elaborated.
Great. So, anyone could have triggered Shorty's transformation.
Aubrey ruffled her hair and groaned in frustration. This investigation and clue-digging business sucked. She felt like she was grasping at straws. Not only that but the knowledge that eldritch cultists were running amok complicated matters.
Those fuckers would be added to Aubrey's hitlist. If they kept turning people into abominable horrors, then who the hell would be left to go to their concerts? She couldn't imagine a crowd of mindless monsters jamming. That would suck.
"Alright. Thanks, guys. Appreciate the exposition dump." Aubrey sighed, shaking her head.
Cedric nodded in acknowledgment. Thaddeus bowed ceremoniously.
"Always a pleasure educating those ignorant and naive," Thaddeus remarked. Aubrey shot him a dirty look. Thaddeus offered a mechanical shrug and ambled away.
Asshole. Aubrey swore that automaton loved taunting her.
Whatever. She had other business to do today.
She gave Cedric one of the coin-filled boxes she pilfered last night. Aubrey had opened both containers and was surprised to find them filled to the brim with pure gold and platinum. All sovereigns.
Sure, she planned on keeping a sizeable share, but she wasn't a complete asshole.
"Cedric, add this to our treasury. Got eighty-five sovereign last night. I'm only gonna be using about a fifty. Keep the rest secure."
Cedric accepted the hefty box and nodded. "Understood."
Aubrey bid her gargoyle friend goodbye and departed the Cathedral. The Facsimile Mask was waiting for her.
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Aubrey mulled over Fentworth's warnings as she stepped out into the smog-laden twilight of the Ironworks district, the Facsimile Mask securely tucked under her arm. She had a plan—a dangerous one, no doubt—but necessary if she was to weave her way undetected through the web of conspiracies shrouding her murder.
And besides. She was tired of tiptoeing around in the shadows. Tired of waiting.
Sure. Performing with the band had been a welcome distraction. It was fun. Liberating. Made her feel alive. If she could just live and enjoy such moments, day-in and day-out, she'd be happy.
But her thirst for revenge never subsided. It was always there in the back of her mind.
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
If anything, the incident with Shorty last night ignited the flames of vengeance, further fueling her resolve.
Aubrey traversed the winding cobblestone streets and alleys of the Ironworks. Smoke billowed from factory stacks and belched from the numerous chimneys. Steam-powered carriages clanged and clattered past her.
Everywhere she looked, workers toiled and labored, slaving away. The rhythmic banging of iron and steel resonated amidst the din.
She turned the corner and entered a secluded alleyway. After ensuring she wasn't being tailed, Aubrey fitted the Facsimile Mask on her face.
Instantly, the mask shifted and contorted, molding and forming around her countenance. Aubrey winced as a strange tingling sensation prickled her skin. She could feel the mask's material crawling and creeping across her cheeks and forehead.
She resisted the urge to rip the infernal thing off and cast it aside. Instead, Aubrey gritted her teeth and endured, focusing on the look she wanted to achieve.
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Aubrey’s steps echoed quietly in the narrow backstreet as she strode purposefully through the twisting labyrinth of soot-covered brick and mortar. She pulled the brim of her cap lower, shadowing her eyes, now a mundane brown thanks to the Facsimile Mask's temporary alteration. Her hair, usually vibrant and eye-catching, was now a short dull blonde.
She wore a plain and inconspicuous ensemble consisting of a simple white shirt underneath a charcoal-colored vest and a gray coat. She also donned a pair of sturdy work trousers and heavy boots.
Not exactly something a woman would normally wear, but Aubrey cared little for societal norms and conventions. Besides, practicality won over fashion. She could have just opted to make herself look like a man, but didn't want to risk any potential dangers from using the mask to that extent.
Better safe than sorry.
The streets of the Ironworks were alive with the end-of-shift bustle, workers trudging home, their faces etched with the day's toil. Aubrey moved among them. Yet, her goal wasn't to blend in, not entirely. She needed information, a way into the heart of Blackwell's operations, and for that, she required someone on the inside.
Her steps led her to a grimy tavern known among the locals as The Molten Pint, nestled between two towering factories. Its sign, worn and faded, creaked gently in the evening breeze. The tavern was a favorite haunt for factory workers looking to drown their sorrows in cheap ale.
Aubrey pushed open the door, the scent of ale and the din of weary voices greeting her. She scanned the room, looking over the patrons. One table was occupied by a group of soot-stained men engaged in a heated card game. Another was a gathering of bleary-eyed drinkers slumped over their tankards, nursing their hangovers.
As she roamed around the tavern and scrutinized its inhabitants, her gaze landed upon a man sitting alone, nursing a pint of dark ale, his posture relaxed yet somehow alert. Aubrey couldn't explain it, but something about him seemed off compared to the others.
She edged closer, dissecting the man's appearance with methodical attention.
His hands bore the tale-telling signs of an artisan—calloused, yet with a precision in their form that spoke of skilled labor beyond the rough handling of raw materials. The subtle burns on his forearms, partially concealed beneath the cuffs of his worn shirt, were consistent with those who worked near the intense heat of smelting furnaces, yet they were too precise, lacking the random distribution expected from a typical foundry worker.
His clothing, though dusted with the ubiquitous soot of the district, was of a quality a notch above his peers. The fabric, though faded, was cut in a style that favored function over fashion, suggesting a role that required mobility and authority.
The boots, peeking from beneath the table, were well-worn but reinforced in areas subject to wear from operating machinery—indicative of someone who not only supervised but also participated directly in the production process.
A small, leather-bound notebook peeked from his jacket pocket, its edges worn from frequent use rather than neglect. Beside his drink, a sophisticated-looking pen was carelessly placed, its design far removed from the simple quills and inkpots found in the hands of the average worker. It was the kind of pen used for signing contracts or marking schematics, not for jotting down orders or tallying hours.
The most telling sign, however, was the subtle emblem stitched into the cuff of his sleeve—a small, intricate gear entwined with a stylized "B." It was partially obscured by the sleeve, likely an oversight he hadn't considered.
Aubrey's mind pieced together the clues until her conclusion settled firmly into her mind.
Likely, this man was an engineer or a foreman, someone with intimate knowledge of the production processes. More importantly, that stylized symbol branded discreetly on his clothing was the same symbol she saw engraved on gates and buildings.
Blackwell Industry sigil.
This man was a perfect candidate.
Wow, I could work as a damn good detective.
Aubrey didn't think she had it in her to be this perceptive and clever. Perhaps her intuition was heightened by the game-like progression offered by the System. Either way, it was a welcome trait—she needed every edge given to her in order to find her murderers.
She sauntered casually towards him and leaned against the bar, careful not to draw unwanted attention. Aubrey flagged the bartender, ordering a pint of ale. While awaiting her beverage, she stole a quick glance at the Blackwell engineer.
The man had a rugged charm despite his shabby appearance. Aubrey guessed him to be in his early forties or late thirties. Dark stubble covered his jaw and his hair was slightly matted. He sported a pair of spectacles perched atop his nose. His face carried an expression of exhaustion and weariness, no doubt due to the grueling demands of his occupation.
Aubrey sipped her ale, savoring the bitter taste as she discreetly observed him.
The engineer sat hunched over the bar, nursing his drink, seemingly oblivious to the world around him.
"Evening," she greeted, her voice modulated slightly by the mask's enchantment to a tone neutral and unassuming. "Mind if I join?"
The man glanced up, his weary eyes briefly flitting to the emblem on his cuff as if suddenly conscious of its exposure. He covered it with his other hand, a small movement, but telling.
"Be my guest," he replied gruffly.
Aubrey slid onto the adjacent stool. She ordered another drink and sipped silently. She didn't say anything more. Her strategy wasn't to immediately engage him. She needed to assess the man first. Get a read on his temperament.
She waited patiently for him to initiate conversation.
"What brings you to a dive like this?" the engineer finally asked, breaking the awkward silence.
Aubrey shrugged noncommittally. "Needed a drink. Same as you. Saw no difference. Figured any tavern's as good as the next. So, what do you think of the ale?"
The man offered a half-smile, the first crack in his guarded demeanor. "Depends on how bad your day was. Makes everything taste like the finest brew by the end of a shift."
Aubrey chuckled, the sound hollow and subdued. "That bad, huh? Work in the factories long?"
"Long enough to know better," he muttered, taking another sip. His eyes flicked up to meet hers, a mixture of curiosity and resignation in his gaze. "The factories don't run themselves. Someone has to keep 'em humming. What about you? New here?"
Aubrey weighed her answer carefully. Too obvious an invitation and the man would clam up. Too vague a reply would raise suspicion. She opted for somewhere in the middle.
"I suppose you could say I'm a newcomer. Been doing odd jobs here and there." Aubrey sipped her drink and lowered her voice, adopting an air of melancholy. "Can't seem to stick anywhere, though. But I’ve heard stories about the Blackwell factories. Always figured places like that employ a ton of folk. Maybe I could find a place there."
The mention of Blackwell stiffened his posture, a subtle but telling reaction. "And why would someone like you be interested in factory tales?"
"Just curious," Aubrey said, maintaining her facade. "Thought working for them might be an option. But I’ve heard... things. Wanted to get the lay of the land before jumping in."
The man’s expression softened slightly, a hint of sympathy in his features. "Fair enough. But word of advice: Best stay away. The factories aren’t for everyone. Dangerous work, and not just because of the machines."
"Dangerous how?" Aubrey pressed gently, probing for information.
He glanced around the dimly lit tavern, ensuring their conversation remained private. "The Blackwells have a way of... ensuring loyalty. You see things, things that aren’t right. And if you’re not careful, you start to disappear like smoke in the wind."
Aubrey feigned an apprehensive expression and sipped her drink. "Sounds a bit ominous. But surely they can't just vanish people, can they? Would cause quite a commotion, no? Factory accidents happen and all, sure, but disappearing folk without a trace seems... a bit extreme."
"Oh believe me. The Blackwells can do anything they want. You see things." His voice dropped to a low whisper. "Those factories, they’re not just about iron and steam. There are more, darker projects. Stuff that doesn't sit right with a lot of folks."
Aubrey suppressed a smirk. Things were progressing nicely. She decided to steer the topic further. "Like what?"
He glanced around nervously before leaning closer. "Surveillance. Control. Things meant to keep us in line, under the guise of progress and safety."
Woah. This was a scoop.
"I'm listening."
"There are factories, hidden ones, where they make these... devices. Not just any contraptions, but ones that can listen, watch, and even change the way people think and feel. They're experimenting with sound and images, ways to manipulate the masses."
Intriguing. Aubrey wasn’t sure if she fully grasped the scope of the implications. But hearing him talk gave her plenty of ideas.
"You're saying they use these devices in public? To control people?" she asked.
He nodded grimly. "Seen it myself. Worked on some of them before I couldn't stomach it anymore. The things they're planning, it's not right."
Aubrey maintained her casual façade. She didn’t want to come across too eager.
This all might not have any connection to her case, but a part of her couldn't help but feel impressed by the sheer audacity. Hopefully they were involved. That way she would have a justification to torch those facilities down.
"Why not report them? Tell people what you saw? Surely that would bring a lot of heat down on Blackwell."
The engineer's expression darkened. "Because no one would listen. Who would believe the ramblings of a disgruntled worker over the words of a noble family? No one. Especially the higher-ups. They're bought and paid for, spineless. Without proof, no one would bat an eye."
"What if you stole one of those devices?" Aubrey ventured. "Proof would certainly raise heads. Maybe even spark an investigation."
He scoffed. "Steal one? Risk my neck? Only a madman would try that. Besides, if I did steal one, where could I go? Blackwell's reach extends far and wide, and the nobles are no better. Everyone's in their pockets, lining their own coffers. No. There's no point."
"I could help," Aubrey offered, gauging his reaction. "Help you get one of those devices. If it's proof people want, then we'll give it to them. Together."
His expression turned skeptical. "Help me steal one of those things? How? Why? Don't take this the wrong way, but who exactly are you and what's your angle?"
Aubrey pondered her response carefully. She needed a good cover and a damn convincing one. She opted for something relatable and familiar. Something that would appeal to the man's circumstances.
"Let's just say I'm in the same boat. Looking to survive. Make a difference. Hopeless. Alone. Nothing much to lose." Aubrey downplayed her delivery and adopted an air of resigned determination. "Besides, stealing things's kinda my specialty. I'm willing to wager my odds are better with someone in the know. How about you? Ready for a leap?"
The engineer's expression remained cautious but his posture relaxed ever so slightly, the slightest glimmer of hope in his eyes. "Well... I suppose one device can't hurt."
Perfect. Aubrey sensed an opening.
She extended her hand. "Name's Jane. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."
He accepted her gesture and gripped her hand. His grip firm and his hand calloused and scarred. "Samuel. Likewise. Though I must warn you. I have a family. If anything happens..."
Aubrey tightened her grip and met his gaze. "I never met you. You never met me. Simple."
He offered a slight nod. Satisfied.
"So, how do I get inside their factories and see these devices?"
"Not easily. Security's tight. But I still know a few folks on the inside. Workers who don't agree with what's happening but need the job. I can put you in touch. From there... it's up to you."
Excellent. Aubrey mentally noted his name and face. Samuel.
"Well then. Send them my way. I can work my magic."
They chatted a bit more and hammered out a basic plan. Aubrey learned Samuel was a supervisor for one of the smaller factories tasked with building the surveillance devices. He could smuggle her in as a new recruit and provide her a guided tour of the facilities. From there, she would have free rein to poke around and procure an intact device.
"One condition, though," Samuel warned. "When this goes south, and it will. You're on your own. My hands will be clean. Family's safety depends on it. Understand?"
Aubrey smirked. Fair enough. She was confident enough in her skills and the Facsimile Mask's power. Everything should go swimmingly.
"Completely. No hard feelings. I'm a big girl."
"Good." Samuel drained the last of his drink and rose, straightening his coat. "Then I'll send word tomorrow. Be ready. And Jane?"
Aubrey cocked her head. "Hmm?"
"Thanks. For listening. I've kept quiet for far too long. Feels good to share it with someone."
"Anytime." Aubrey smiled behind her disguise. Samuel tipped his hat and departed the tavern, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
Things had gone smoother than she anticipated.
She had other things in mind after infiltrating the factory. Someone or something there had the answers she needed. Aubrey would ensure the visit would prove fruitful.
Before the day was over, she needed to get some lockpicks and have Thaddeus teach her how to use them.