Aubrey lurked in the shadows of the factory floor, her Facsimile Mask concealing her identity. Samuel had escorted her inside and provided a brief tour before returning to his regular duties. Now she was on her own.

She weaved her way through the maze of assembly lines and equipment. Workers toiled and labored under the harsh glare of the factory lamps, their expressions sullen and resigned.

As she meandered through the factory, Aubrey noted the presence of guards and overseers watching from the catwalks above. Their gazes lingered longer than necessary, making her wary and vigilant.

The layout was relatively straightforward—smelting and refining of raw materials, the forging and machining of the devices, and final assembly and packaging. Every process was closely monitored and tightly controlled.

She found her opportunity during a shift change. Samuel had advised her to wait for the bulk of the workers to leave before conducting her search. As the day's shift drew to a close and the workers began departing, Aubrey took her chance and slipped through the closing doors into a restricted wing.

[Active Effect: Veil of the Hidden Stretto]

Aubrey found herself in a series of long corridors with offices and meeting rooms on either side. The air in here was cooler and less stifling. The acoustics of the space muffled the clatter and noise of the main factory.

She continued exploring.

Occasionally, she came across an office with its door left ajar. Curiosity drove her to peer through the openings. She spied senior engineers and managers at their desks poring over blueprints and documents. Other times, she witnessed briefings and meetings where foremen presented their reports.

Aubrey lingered and listened.

But nothing stood out or piqued her interest. She gained a few new insights and details about the factories' operations, but nothing that helped her.

Aubrey pressed on, her steps silent against the stone floor. Turning a corner, Aubrey stumbled upon a doorway leading to an isolated room bathed in a soft, ethereal glow.

She paused at the threshold, taking in the sight.

Large printing presses lined the room's perimeter. On the opposite side of the space stood an intricate array of mechanisms and components attached to a series of recording discs and phonographs. Three technicians fussed over an apparatus and inspected its various parts and components.

Aubrey crept closer and observed their work.

One technician tinkered with an array of knobs and dials, adjusting the recording equipment. Another handled the phonographs, inserting discs and rotating their various settings. The third technician operated the printing presses, loading them with sheets of paper that shimmered with a faint, otherworldly light.

With a hiss and a glow, the press came to life, churning out page after page of printed script. One sheet caught Aubrey's eye—a poster.

It bore the image of what looked like a prominent figure. A noble. Below the portrait was the caption:

 "Protection. Progress. Prosperity. Support the Blackwell Industries! Together we build a better future."

Faint, glowing symbols and runes danced across the text, their patterns hypnotic and alluring, before fading into the page. Aubrey sensed a strange sensation emanate from the poster—something compelling and persuasive.

Was this an illusion? Or something more insidious? Aubrey couldn't tell. But whatever it was, she didn't like it.

Something tickled the back of her mind, a sensation akin to a fragment of a forgotten memory, the faintest echo of a melody, distant yet familiar. What did they put in there?

The printing press whirred and ground to a halt. The technicians ceased their work and inspected the printed pages. They gathered the posters and transferred them to a cart before wheeling them away.

Aubrey hid and followed from the shadows. The trio deposited the posters into a storage room before returning to their posts.

Curiosity compelled Aubrey to investigate. She approached the pile of freshly-printed posters.

The text glimmered and pulsed with an unnatural glow, but soon the effect weakened and dissipated. As she peered closer at the words and the images, Aubrey sensed a peculiar tug at the edge of her mind—almost like a lure, pulling and beckoning.

Aubrey focused her will and resisted its influence.

With trembling hands, she examined the posters, taking care not to touch the print itself. Each poster bore the same message and images. The same compulsion.

Was this what Samuel meant by devices that could manipulate the masses? If they could do this with print, what else could they alter? Audio recordings? Film?

Aubrey had no concrete answers. But seeing the posters unsettled her. Whatever the Blackwells were doing went beyond mere propaganda and subliminal messaging.

This was something else. Something sinister.

The device that Samuel mentioned should have answers. Aubrey had to find it.

She searched the storage room, but nothing unusual stuck out—until she spotted a box tucked away in a corner.

Another stash of posters, each bearing the visage of a figure she knew all too well—herself, or rather, the version of her that was murdered. The images were captivating, her eyes on the posters glowing an unnatural shade of blue, her hair a vibrant flame. But it was the slogans beneath that caught her attention:

 "Unity through Harmony!"

 "Follow the Voice of Progress."

 "Aubrey Leads, Mordenstradt Follows."

What the hell? Was Blackwell Industries endorsing her and her music?

Aubrey studied the posters, tracing her fingers along the text. The strange pull returned, stronger than before. She resisted its allure and pocketed a poster. She would show Cedric and Thaddeus afterward and seek their insight.

Careful not to leave any traces or evidence of her presence, Aubrey continued her search.

----------------------------------------

Further down the corridor, she came across a room with its door closed. Unlike the previous offices she visited, this one lacked the telltale signs of occupants: sounds of voices, rustling papers, and the clattering of tools.

She crept forward and tested the door. It yielded with a soft click. Carefully, she peered through the crack. The space appeared dark and deserted. Aubrey eased the door open and slipped inside.

The room itself was a stark contrast to the sterile and utilitarian aesthetic of the factories. This was a study fit for a noble: an elegant desk adorned with a polished wood surface and carved legs. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with tomes and journals bound in leather and embossed with golden filigree.

Aubrey browsed the shelves and examined the books. Most were technical treatises on engineering and manufacturing. But a few caught her attention: volumes on philosophy and social sciences, and theories on psychology and behavioral manipulation.

Her fingers brushed against the spines of the books, tracing the titles. Among them, she uncovered an inconsistency—an unassuming ledger tucked away between two ornate volumes. It seemed out of place, its plain leather cover stark against the gilded opulence surrounding it.

Intrigued, she pulled it from the shelf.

The ledger was heavier than it looked, filled with pages of meticulous entries, numbers, and names scrawled in a neat hand. Aubrey flipped through the pages, her eyes scanning the figures and notes.

And then, she saw it: her own name—or rather, "Lady Aubrey," as the entry referred to her—next to a series of dates and numbers. The entries detailed payments, expenses for costumes, stage sets, and even specific mentions of sound amplification devices used during her performances.

But it was the name beside the signature on each contract that caught her breath—Julian Blackwell.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

The resonance was immediate, a name imbued with a sense of familiarity and dread that clawed at the edges of her fragmented memories. Aubrey wracked her mind but could conjure no solid recollection—only a vague face. Yet the emotions persisted.

Anger. Betrayal. Resentment.

Did Julian have a connection to the person who orchestrated her murder? Was he one of the four?

Questions swirled through her mind, fueled by simmering rage.

The financial transactions revealed more than just the extent of Blackwell's control—they showed a pattern of investment in specific performances and venues, particularly those equipped with the sound amplification devices and venues known for distributing the arcane-imbued propaganda posters. It was as if Blackwell had been orchestrating not just her career, but her audience's perception as well.

Aubrey pocketed the ledger. This was her smoking gun—physical evidence linking this person's involvement and manipulation.

Perhaps the device Samuel mentioned would tie it all together.

She exited the room and continued her search. All she needed to do now was find that device Samuel talked about and get the hell out.

Aubrey explored the factory's isolated wing further. Eventually, the corridor opened up into a large chamber, dominated by an imposing mechanism—an elaborate, cylindrical structure adorned with lenses, crystals, and arcane circuitry.

Suspended at the center of the device floated a crystal prism, its facets radiating an ethereal blue light. Around the apparatus, a team of technicians and researchers buzzed, monitoring the readings on their instruments and scribbling their notes.

From her vantage point in the shadows, Aubrey could make out the writings on their clipboards. Arcane equations and mathematical formulas, paired with sketches and illustrations depicting waves and sound oscillations, covered the pages.

Aubrey watched intently as the technicians huddled around the larger device, their discussions a low murmur she strained to hear. Her gaze drifted across the chamber, noticing several smaller objects placed on a workbench nearby.

Samuel's description didn't do justice to the object—it looked like a vintage film projector merged with a phonograph. Small lenses and crystals dotted the outer casing while brass trumpets and cones protruded from its sides. At the center of the device sat a glowing crystal prism.

Was this the audio-visual propaganda device Samuel mentioned?

One of the technicians, a woman with streaks of soot on her face, gestured towards the smaller devices and spoke loud enough for Aubrey to catch snippets of the conversation.

"...the Luminal Projector prototypes are ready for the next phase of testing. The resonance frequencies have been tuned according to the latest psychological models. The test audience showed a significant emotional shift."

Aubrey's heart skipped. Luminal Projector?

Another technician, a balding man wearing a monocle, nodded in agreement. "Excellent. Let's commence with the demonstration and observe the results. Time is of the essence and Lord Blackwell's patience grows thin. If our calculations are correct and the projections align with his plans for the city—"

"We know the stakes," a third technician interjected. "Now cease your babbling and let's get to it."

Monocle man glared at the rude technician but acquiesced. "Very well. Ensure the crystal lens is properly aligned. The last test run showed some distortion in the projected images. We can't afford any discrepancies; the images must evoke the desired emotions without fail."

The technicians busied themselves with their tasks.

Well, she found what she was looking for. All she needed to do now was grab one and bolt. But those projectors were bulky and awkward to carry, let alone conceal. Aubrey cursed internally.

Time to improvise.

She assessed her surroundings. Aside from the technicians and their Luminal Projectors, no one else occupied the chamber.

Perfect.

Aubrey willed the Facsimile Mask to alter her appearance, changing her face to look like one of the female technicians she saw earlier. Once the transformation was complete, she strolled casually into the chamber and joined the busywork.

None of the other technicians reacted, preoccupied with their preparations. Aubrey blended seamlessly into the group, picking up a Luminal Projector and pretending to inspect it.

"Hand it over," the rude technician snapped. "Last time you botched the calibrations and the frequency coils misaligned. And wear your safety goggles. Last thing we need is another incident."

Shit. Aubrey complied and surrendered the projector. She reached for the safety goggles hanging on a peg nearby and slipped it on. Hopefully, the technician would buy her disguise.

Rude tech didn't press further. Aubrey exhaled a sigh of relief.

She pretended to assist, checking her imaginary checklist and making noncommittal adjustments. As she wandered around the chamber, Aubrey spied a storage cabinet with a glass window and a lock. Inside, rows upon rows of Luminal Projectors gleamed innocuously.

Time to make her move.

Keeping her stride natural and her demeanor calm, Aubrey made her approach. The cabinets stood close to the chamber's exit. Once she secured a Luminal Projector, she could sneak out undetected.

The key was acting fast.

Aubrey positioned herself near the cabinet and palmed the lock pick within her sleeve. Careful to shield her actions from the others, she deftly inserted the pick and fiddled with the tumbler.

Nothing on one. Two is binding. Nice click out of three. Nothing on four... There we go. Click on one, and...

Got it.

Within seconds, the lock clicked with a satisfying snap.

Slowly and steadily, Aubrey cracked the cabinet and retrieved a Luminal Projector, careful not to attract undue attention. Satisfied, Aubrey clutched the device and strolled towards the chamber's entrance.

Everything was going smoothly.

Once Aubrey passed through the doorway and rounded the corner, she would escape the factory and rendezvous with Samuel. Then, she could—

"Halt!" a technician barked. "Where do you think you're going?!"

Scram!

----------------------------------------

Aubrey clutched the Luminal Projector tightly, its weight a solid presence against her chest.

Behind her, a technician pursued, shouting orders to the others. Aubrey didn't bother glancing over her shoulder. She dashed through the factory, her feet carrying her deeper into the machine-lined corridors.

Guards emerged from an adjacent hallway, blocking her path. Aubrey veered away and darted down another route.

She hadn't made it far when the shrill clang of an alarm pierced the air, its discordant beat jarring against the melody of her foresight.

Her Harmonic Synesthesia kicked in, casting the world into a vivid tapestry of cues and patterns. A frantic melody thrummed in Aubrey's ears—the frantic pulse of her pursuers, their footsteps hammering the steel grilles below her feet, and the pounding urgency of her racing heart.

Voices and shouts echoed around her. Aubrey ignored the dissonant chaos and honed in on the steady tempo of her breath.

Keep running. Keep running. Don't look back.

A guard rounded the corner, his eyes widening in surprise at the sight of Aubrey clutching the Luminal Projector.

Glowing lines and arrows appeared in her vision, guiding her movements as the guard reached for the revolver holstered at his side. With a graceful sidestep, Aubrey dodged the guard's clumsy attempt to grab her, the cues from her Synesthesia painting the guard's trajectory with crisp clarity.

The guard recovered and lunged. Aubrey ducked and rolled away, evading the guard's grasp and avoiding the clutter of machinery that blocked her path.

She sprinted down the corridor, the projector secure under her arm, as more guards were alerted to the intrusion. The sound of shouting and the clatter of boots on metal floors filled the air.

As she neared the factory floor, a group of guards armed with swords and a couple brandishing revolvers blocked her path. Aubrey didn't slow; instead, she focused on the rhythmic patterns that surrounded her adversaries, each guard's movements telegraphed by pulsating icons and beats.

"Stand down! Drop the device immediately or we will shoot!" one shouted. Aubrey didn't heed the warning.

Instead, she leaped and bounded off a conveyor belt, narrowly missing the bullets whizzing past her head. Her trajectory carried her into a crowd of startled workers and foremen.

A particularly persistent guard managed to corner her near a smelting furnace, the heat from the molten metal a tangible force. Aubrey could see the trajectory of his attack, a red arrow in her vision signaling an impending swing from his heavy wrench. With a swift roll, she evaded the blow, the wrench clanging against the metal railing and sending sparks into the air.

In a fluid motion, Aubrey sprang to her feet and kicked a lever nearby, sending a cart full of raw materials careening into her pursuer, knocking him off balance. She didn't stop to watch him fall; her focus was solely on the exit now visible across the floor, the pulsating beats of her Synesthesia guiding her every step.

Two guards rushed toward her from opposite directions, attempting to flank her position.

Time to test out my new ability.

[Ability: "Dissonant Chord" activated! Duration: 18 seconds; Cooldown: 30 seconds]

She belted a piercing note, the dissonant vibrato echoing throughout the factory. The guard approaching from her right staggered mid-step before snarling and turning on his comrade.

The confused guard barely had a chance to react as his companion lunged, tackling him to the floor.

Perfect. Aubrey raced past the pair, the Luminal Projector safely tucked under her arm.

The final obstacle came in the form of a guard armed with a bolt-action rifle aimed at her.

The world seemed to freeze as she locked eyes with him, the slow-motion moment allowing her to see the trajectory of the bullet before it was even fired. A bright yellow line in her vision showed the path of the incoming shot, which she gracefully evaded with a smooth twist and a pirouette.

Bullets ricocheted off the machinery surrounding her, the guard's shots wildly inaccurate and wildly imprecise. Aubrey wasted no time, darting through the factory's entrance and bursting out onto the streets.

She sprinted through the crowded thoroughfares and weaved through the evening crowds. Behind her, the factory's alarm continued to blare, its dissonant cry ringing in her ears and drowning out the stunned stares of the passers-by.

Suddenly, a rhythmic clanking of metal reverberated through the streets. Aubrey glanced over her shoulder and gasped at the sight.

Arriving on the scene was a trio of security automatons, hot on her tail, their heavy footsteps echoing off the cobbled pavement and their mechanical joints whirring and clicking with each stride.

Shit!

Gearbound Constables.

Aubrey had only seen these things from a distance. People talked about them in hushed tones—boogeymen of the industrial era. Where a human officer couldn't be bothered to chase a petty thief or enforce the curfew, a Gearbound Constable could pursue relentlessly.

Now she saw them up close.

Each automaton stood at the height of a full-grown adult male. Their bodies were clad in riveted iron and brass plates, with glowing runes etched into their casings and pulsating arcane circuitry weaving through their joints and gears.

Their heads were topped with angular optical lenses and brass horns. These allowed the Constables to scan and track their targets without impeding their vision. Attached to their backs were a pair of extendable batons and nets. Aubrey heard the tales of how the Gearbound Constables' weapons contained powerful electric currents.

Fuck. Me.

Aubrey had no intention of sticking around to learn firsthand.

With the Luminal Projector in tow, she bolted down the alleyways, the Gearbound Constables on her heels.