The week following Julian's "disappearance" had not been kind to the Blackwell family, nor their factories. The workers had struck in solidarity, refusing to go back to work until changes were made within the company. They had flooded the streets with their signs and protesting, forcing the guards to form a defensive line.
As Aubrey watched, she felt a sense of vindication for her actions. Not only was she pleased to see Blackwell's plans crumbling, but she also found the strike itself to be admirable in its defiance of authority.
For over a month, Aubrey had been the phantom architect of this uprising, weaving through the ranks of the oppressed, her words fanning the smoldering embers of dissent into open flames. She had done this through subtle influence—playing the role of a revolutionary within the ranks of the workers—spreading her ideas through whispered conversations, veiled comments, and barely hidden messages.
Now, the workers had come to the fore, their demands echoing across the Ironworks streets.
The leaders of the strike, makeshift orators standing atop crates, held speeches to rally the workers and vilify the Blackwell family, casting them as villains who exploited their laborers with unfair conditions and sub-standard safety. Their cries of justice rang out through the crowds of laborers and gathered sympathizers, bolstered by the din of marching boots.
The factory's foremen, identifiable by their finer clothes and haughty stares, appeared beyond the gates, their attempts to placate the crowd falling on deaf ears.
They told of a concerned family grieving the disappearance of one of their own, swearing up and down they'd make changes once they got more information on the causes of his sudden departure. These false promises were drowned out by the din of the protests. The foremen realized the futility of their words and disappeared behind the factory walls again.
As the day wore on, the stand-off intensified. Neither side yielded, each waiting for the other to break first.
One of the guards stood at the front of the line, shouting for the crowd to disperse and go back to their homes. His words went ignored, however, as the workers continued to chant and shout.
"We want better wages, better conditions, and Blackwell ain't givin' us nuthin' but promises that he don't intend to keep!" one of the protesters yelled back, waving his fist in the air.
Aubrey couldn't help but smirk to herself. These workers had no idea the real reason for Blackwell's absence, and they likely didn't care. All that mattered to them was that their demands were heard and their grievances addressed.
An argument began between a handful of the guards and some of the protesters who pushed too close to their line. Several more guards came forward from behind to reinforce their ranks. Some of the protesters took the opportunity to grab their signs and start shoving against the line of guards. Others continued chanting, and some began throwing stones and whatever else they could get their hands on at the guards.
"Keep back, by order of the Mordenstradt Constabulary!" a guard cried out while they tried to shield themselves from the onslaught of projectiles. "Go back home or we will resort to calling in the Gearbound Constables! This will end badly for everyone!"
Despite their efforts, more and more of the guards began getting shoved around by the workers. This caused others to charge in behind their comrades, leading to a general melee breaking out in the square. A few of the protesters—the smartest ones—grabbed their friends and began dragging them away. However, most were too caught up in the moment to think rationally.
As Aubrey watched on, several Gearbound Constables arrived and began to wade into the crowd of protesters, clubs raised to quell the riot. Men and women fell under the heavy blows, writhing in pain or passed out on the cobblestone.
She didn't stick around long enough to see how things played out. Instead, she slipped away into the shadows, her giddy mind already racing ahead with her next moves.
With many of their guards preoccupied with the protests, it was a good time to infiltrate Blackwell's main estate—to lay hands on anything useful and mess with his reputation as much as she could. It had to be done as quickly as possible too. With how this rioting and the workers' actions against the Blackwell family seemed to be progressing, it wouldn't be long until the Constabulary mounted an investigation to find the source of their troubles.
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In the dim light of a secluded chamber, Aubrey held the Facsimile Mask in her hands, its weathered mahogany surface smooth and unsettlingly life-like under her touch. She raised it to her face and willed its magic into existence, the mask shifting and contorting like melted wax until it molded to her visage, transforming her features into that of Julian's.
She willed its effects to progress further, altering her body to resemble his as well. She felt a momentary panic as her body contorted, reshaping itself to match Julian's taller, more imposing stature. Her frame grew thicker and broader, her limbs elongating and the weight of her chest disappearing entirely. A painful yet strangely exhilarating experience, like pulling oneself through molasses.
As soon as the process finished, she found herself looking down at herself with unfamiliar eyes. Instead of her lithe, alluring body, she now saw Julian's... and felt slightly off-balance.
With a steadying breath, Aubrey collected her thoughts and did a few stretches. She walked over to the full-length mirror on one of the walls to inspect herself more thoroughly, making sure to familiarize herself with her new form and its limitations. It wouldn't do to start stumbling about awkwardly while trying to go about her business.
She wore the tailored suit that Julian had worn that night—a bit disheveled now thanks to her rough treatment of him—but otherwise intact.
After taking a moment to adjust to her new appearance, Aubrey practiced Julian's voice, finding the timbre and cadence easy to imitate, and—most importantly—it matched his inflections to a certain extent. It was an unsettling experience, hearing his words emanate from her throat, but she shrugged the discomfort off with an act of will.
As for how to act—well, that would depend entirely upon whom she encountered while disguised.
Aubrey's mind replayed every encounter, every snippet of memory she possessed of Julian. His body language, the way he carried himself, the way his facial expressions shifted in tandem with his words, how he presented himself as this big and influential man of power—every single detail she could recall that helped her build a framework for how to best pretend to be him.
Funny how memories of him felt so... crystal clear now after she had buried him alive, compared to how disjointed her own life's recollections felt when she awakened.
Now then, it was time for a little larceny...
With Julian's face, Aubrey left the room and made her way to the manor.
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The Blackwell estate consisted of multiple buildings connected by a series of winding hallways and enclosed gardens—all of them elegant, well-kept, and opulent, exuding the kind of wealth only the upper crust could afford.
Aubrey approached the main gate with a confident stride. At her approach, the guards snapped to attention, a mixture of confusion and relief in their eyes.
"Lord Blackwell, you're... here? We heard you were missing?" one of them ventured, disbelief coloring his tone.
"Disappearances do have a tendency to be rather misleading, do they not?" Aubrey retorted in her best 'Julian' impression—cocking an eyebrow haughtily while glancing between the pair of guards with the expression of an irritated lord whose authority they've just questioned.
The guards hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances, but at her imperious gesture, they stepped aside. "Yes, sir! Sorry for our poor manners!"
As she passed, Aubrey could feel their eyes on her back, following her with wary stares. She forced herself to relax and adopt the posture of a man used to authority.
As she strode toward the manor proper, the doors opened wide to admit her into a luxurious entryway with marble floors and mahogany walls, all decorated with fine paintings and sculptures. Chandeliers hung overhead, lighting the place with a warm glow, and at the end of the hallway, a grand staircase led up to the second floor.
"Lord Blackwell! You've returned! We thought the worst had happened!" a male butler with greying hair hurried over and began helping her remove her overcoat.
The butler, Aubrey guessed.
Another memory flashed in her mind. This one's name was Joseph—Julian's head butler.
Aubrey allowed him to help, subtly taking the chance to inspect the man's appearance—his weathered features, tired eyes, and stooped shoulders—but aside from his slightly slumped posture, nothing stood out as particularly noteworthy.
She did notice the faint smell of cigarette smoke hanging about him though.
"No worries, Joseph. I've handled my own affairs," Aubrey responded coolly, removing her gloves and tucking them into a pocket. "How are things in my absence?"
"It's as you see, sir." Joseph gestured toward the rest of the foyer where several more servants scurried around, their heads bowed low and their steps hurried. "Most of the household staff are working overtime, keeping things in order during these difficult times. Many of your associates and partners have sent search parties to look for you—in some cases, several—and they're also doing their best to maintain some semblance of business as usual."
"Excellent. Do remind them that I am, in fact, quite alive, would you?"
"As you wish, my lord." Joseph gave her a slight bow and scurried off, leaving her alone once again.
The manor itself seemed designed to impress more than anything else. Each room held an excessive number of antique furniture and elaborate wall tapestries, alongside a plethora of exquisite decorations scattered about. Aubrey had half-expected to see statues of Julian—maybe one made out of pure gold sitting in his office for all she knew—but it seemed that even this overbearing, pompous prick had the decency to not be that ostentatious.
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Aubrey spent the next couple of minutes walking aimlessly about, exploring the lower level of the mansion while making idle conversation with any servants she came across. The servants, conditioned to respond with deference to the master's presence, paused in their duties to offer respectful nods or curtseys, but kept their chatter minimal.
She responded with curt nods, adopting the brisk, no-nonsense stride she associated with Julian—trying to keep a confident air without going overboard with it. The last thing she wanted to do was draw attention by acting suspicious.
The weight of the Facsimile Mask on her face felt heavier with each interaction, but it wasn't overwhelming—at least, not yet.
he grand hallway, with its marble floors and gilded portraits of Blackwell ancestors, seemed to echo more loudly under her steps. A housekeeper, a stern woman with graying hair pulled back into a tight bun, approached her. "Lord Blackwell, you're here! Is everything alright, sir?"
Aubrey started, before smiling politely and waving off the older woman's concern. "Yes, thank you, Mrs. Haversham. I've managed to settle my... indiscretion."
"Oh, it's good to have you back, sir, safe and sound." She paused for a second before adding, "Shall I start preparing a bath, sir? You look... worse for the wear. Or perhaps, would you care to visit the conservatory to relax first? Mr. Greaves would no doubt like to talk to you regarding his investigation about your disappearance."
"Not right now," Aubrey snapped. "I have business in my study and should not be disturbed."
Mrs. Haversham frowned. "Sir, Mr. Greaves had insisted he see you upon your return. He would like to meet with you—"
"Now. Is that understood, Mrs. Haversham?"
Aubrey spoke in a tone that brokered no further arguments, staring down at Mrs. Haversham with an icy glare. The housekeeper wilted under her gaze and reluctantly acquiesced to Aubrey's wishes, bowing slightly and stepping aside to let her pass.
As she ascended the grand staircase to the upper floors, Aubrey fought to keep her breathing steady. So far, things hadn't gone too badly, but she couldn't afford to get distracted. If anyone found her snooping about, all bets were off.
Reaching the upper hallway, Aubrey made her way to Julian's private study, the heart of the manor where he conducted his most confidential affairs. The door was closed, as expected, but a quick twist of the handle revealed that the lock had not been engaged. With a faint click, the door swung open, revealing a darkened interior lit only by the fading sunlight streaming through the window.
She closed the door behind her, listening as it latched shut, then turned to survey the room.
The study was much smaller than expected. A large oak desk stood at one end, covered in stacks of papers, letters, and ledgers. Several leather chairs were arranged neatly in front of the desk, as well as a leather couch against one wall, all facing a large fireplace that dominated the opposite end. In the far corner, a bookshelf covered one wall from floor to ceiling.
The room smelled faintly of tobacco smoke—no doubt due to its owner's fondness for cigars—and the musty scent of old books.
It felt strange to be inside here—standing where he once stood—feeling his presence around her. The office contained none of the lavish ornamentation displayed elsewhere throughout the rest of the home. Only bare walls, plain curtains, and a few generic paintings adorned the study.
But this room belonged to Julian. That alone gave it a weight it didn't have before, at least for her.
Memories of her entering this study played back in her head—times he had invited her for private talks and the times when he tried to feel her up or accosted her for his lustful needs. The pig thought she'd simply just allow him to do as he pleased simply because they were already past the point of being acquainted, and she hadn't obliged.
In his mind, she had only two functions. Either she could sing for him, entertain his guests, and be at his beck and call, or she could spread her legs and pleasure him. Nothing more and nothing less. He considered her the same as his personal belongings, even going so far as to tell her that he would be within his rights to share her with his friends or colleagues to see if she would also provide them such services.
The recollection made her stomach churn in disgust. What was worse was the thought that she had harbored genuine feelings for this... bastard. A handsome face and the right words can turn people's heads, but the eyes never lie, and in them, he'd revealed himself as the worm that he truly was.
Well, he finally got his, and it brought a wicked smile to her lips at the memory.
Aubrey went straight to the desk. It took only a cursory inspection of the papers, letters, and ledgers stacked on top of it to determine that it contained nothing useful, and after rifling through the drawers for several minutes, she found little more of interest—only official business correspondence, drafts for future projects, and the occasional journal entry detailing mundane affairs.
After examining all the ledgers on the desk, she moved to the bookshelf next, taking stock of the volumes. It seemed he collected all types of literature ranging from political treatises to fantastical adventures to non-fiction history, the collection spanning a range of subjects. Several of the books bore notes in the margins or bookmarks placed between the pages.
However, a closer examination of the spines revealed that many of the older books contained no titles—just simple engravings, whereas the more recent works bore printed labels. A quick search yielded nothing. It looked like there wasn't much to go through.
At least, not that she could tell from the study's outward appearance. She considered Julian to be the type of man to have a hidden safe where he stored his secrets. Somewhere that a casual search wouldn't reveal.
With a shrug, Aubrey turned back to the bookshelf and began pulling each volume off one by one, setting them aside to search for a hidden compartment in the wood underneath. She felt around behind the shelves, probing for cracks or seams. Her fingers brushed across something smooth—a button? —and she pressed it experimentally.
A soft click echoed from the wall above her as part of the shelves swung outward.
Her mouth spread into a delighted grin. A secret safe, as expected. Now she knew she'd found something important.
Carefully, Aubrey pushed the shelf aside enough to reveal a narrow recess in the wall. A stack of leather-bound journals sat inside, tied together with a thick cord. She took one out, flipped it open, and found a collection of letters—not printed but handwritten.
Julian,
The schematics we've provided for the prototype Luminal Projector have some inaccuracies in them, as you've most likely noticed by now. A small modification will need to be done in order to make the device fully operational. Please see enclosed documents for further details and instructions. I've marked the locations of the ley lines within the Thornhaven district. Each crystal needs two months to gather the necessary arcane energy for activation. We also advise against placing them too close to the Obsidian Tower. The arcanists there will detect such fluctuations and interfere.
— H.V.
Ley lines? Thornhaven district? Guess that's the next area she needs to visit after all this was done. She thumbed through the rest of the documents.
Julian,
Our recent experiments have yielded results beyond our initial projections. The preliminary tests conducted within The Luminous Consortium's facilities have exceeded our expectations. The integration of arcane harmonics with industrial applications presents an unprecedented opportunity for control and influence on a mass scale. Your insight into leveraging Aubrey Sinclair's unique vocal capabilities could be the linchpin in actualizing "Project Prometheus."
The human voice carries within it a power untapped, a resonance that can alter the fabric of reality. Aubrey's voice, in particular, possesses a purity and a range that defies scientific explanation. My initial analyses suggest that there is no physiological basis for these anomalous results; rather, I hypothesize that these attributes stem from a similar source that powers arcane scriptures and the aether used by Hunters and the Cogsworn Order.
If we can replicate her vocal capabilities, the applications are limitless. However, we must proceed with caution. The volatility of the energies we are dealing with cannot be overstated. Our breakthroughs, while promising, tread a fine line between innovation and catastrophe.
I await our next meeting with great anticipation.
Yours in progress,
— H.V.
There were even some meeting notes scribbled with outlines for the plans discussed:
Meeting Date: [Redacted]
Attendees: J. Blackwell, H. Voss, [Names Redacted]
Discussion Points:
1. Observations of the subject's (Aubrey) unique vocal abilities—potential applications in crowd control, interrogation, and warfare.
2. H. Voss proposes an integrated approach, combining arcane harmonics with our latest sound amplification technology to capture and replicate the subject's abilities.
3. Concerns raised regarding the ethical implications and potential for backlash from both the public and rival factions.
4. J. Blackwell dismisses ethical concerns; emphasizes the strategic advantage and necessity of harnessing such power for the Iron Circle and The Luminous Consortium's goals.
Action Items:
* Initiate Phase 1 of Project Prometheus (codename for the Aubrey vocal replication initiative).
* H. Voss to lead research team, given her expertise in acoustics and arcane harmonics.
* Begin construction of prototype device for capturing and replicating vocal frequencies.
Aubrey let out a low whistle as she skimmed through the papers.
What's "Project Prometheus," and what did it have to do with her?
Julian had many dealings and most likely worked with a lot of people. From his confessions to her, she learned of his close ties with an organization called the Iron Circle—a secret cabal of some sort, though she wasn't sure what it consisted of. These "Iron Circle" people had invested heavily in her shows and gigs and backed the development of those Luminal Projectors, likely to sway the minds of the Mordenstradtian populace towards them... or worse.
'H.V.' probably stood for Helena Voss, right? That made the most sense. It looked like she'd done research on Aubrey's voice, and when Helena understood how powerful it was, she must have shared it with Julian—who knew what it would mean to gain influence over a large crowd. That power must've intrigued him so much that he kept pursuing her.
The timeline of these events was still a bit murky in her mind. When did Julian start to view her as more than just another songstress to exploit? When did he discover just how unique and potent her voice actually was? How long had Helena been monitoring her for research? When did... that Aubrey realize her voice had such an effect?
From the way things sounded, "Project Prometheus" hadn't advanced much... yet. If they had settled on killing her because they knew there was a threat they couldn't contain or control... did that mean this project never advanced further, or did Helena find a way to accomplish their goals without her?
Aubrey frowned in consternation, mulling over the possibilities. No sense in pondering too deeply. She'd have to find answers as she continued her investigations. For now, it appeared that whatever they intended to do, it focused on using her voice somehow, and it hadn't reached fruition yet.
She gathered the remaining letters, stacked them neatly, and tucked them into a satchel lying on a sofa. Then, she rearranged the journals and returned them to their proper place. She glanced around the room, making sure there was no sign that she had tampered with anything, then shut the safe door and pressed the button to lock it closed.
Satisfied that everything appeared as it had when she'd first entered the room, Aubrey headed for the door.
As she was about to leave, a knock echoed from the door. She paused, eyes going wide.
"Lord Blackwell, are you still in there?" came Mrs. Haversham's voice from the other side. "Sir Morgan Greaves is with me and he insists that he needs to see you... urgently."
Aubrey stifled a curse and leaned closer to listen, trying to remain quiet.
"Mrs. Haversham, as I've told you, I do not want to be disturbed right now!" she whisper-yelled, pacing away from the door with anxious strides.
Another voice—presumably Morgan Greaves—answered through the door. His voice had an abrasive rasp to it, like metal scraping against glass. "You've been gone for eight days, Julian. Eight. Days. That's more than enough time for rumors to start. So, yes, I insist."