#anyways! im in love w this au skdjskf

[ratcorvo]

I just saw a gif set of TLOU but I'm blind and tired so I mistook the middle gif for Corvo (hint: it was not Corvo) and now I desperately want a TLOU AU for Dishonored. I don't even know the names of the characters in TLOU but by God do I love the idea of that AU

ooF CAN YOU IMAGINE

what was in the woods? there is a boy who lingers in the emptiest corners of the ugliest of your inherited nightmares, beckoning, tacit, ominous. and watching. always watching. when your aching eyes glance towards the no man’s lands after your routine patrol, when the tainted blood on your hands is at its thickest, you swear you can almost see him, amongst the corroded cries of moaning clickers, in the overgrown, desolate pipes of old sewers your father swore he played in before all this, in your niece’s dying eyes as she makes her first kill. watching. one autumn’s twilight, when news of the president’s head of security returns home with news that could only mean chaos and death, something burns the crevices of your palm, like violent, dying light, something that wants out. and there he is again, the boy, smiling this time, and something dances on the curves of your spine as you reach out to touch at his beckoning hand  — lets see if we can do better. 

its been nine months since the president is killed for nothing more but a single penny in a poor man’s pocket and a simple whim in a hungry man’s game. just like her father, they spit at you as you lurch the jagged edge of your dagger through a runner’s gut, a boy you once spent the better half of your dreary childhood playing hopscotch with, her father caused this infected mess with his greed. men who have it all always want more. you wince as the clicker you neglected to see devours your second command, her hands flaying to grab on to something - anything - as she pleads with you to save her. so did she, says the ex fireflier daud.

once again, a child is left parentless, alone, and with power, a single ring, others want. they say her lover did this. her daughter is missing. history repeats itself. the loaf of miss petuna’s mouldy bread you stole to feed the crying toddler whose parent died in your care has been taken from the remnants of your mahogany counter. so has your dead brother’s broach and your ill mother’s medicine, the medicine you murdered a firefly couple for. the clip on your dust stained window is up and you silently curse at yourself for leaving it unlocked. there are no finger prints left, only pain.

there were only two rings that would gain the resistance access to the tools the late president jessamine locked away in her family’s personal vault that would let them gain power and weaponize the infection: her’s and the protector’s

there’s an old lady who lives on the outskirts of the settlement you used to visit during your weary days training in the military. she’d fancied herself a bearer of good things and called you sweet nothings like darling and lover and black eyes, like you knew her once upon a time when she was young and daring and careless, and you’d always play along just to make her smile. for your visits, she’d give you weird intricates made of infected bone. their designs were pretty, but made you feel weird. if you’d trust any soul in this day and age, you swore they made your kills faster, your healing quicker, your movements effortless. if you were any braver, perhaps, you’d swear old granny rags never aged since the day you met her, eighteen years ago. if you had the balls, you’d ask her why the mark on her shoulder looked exactly like yours.

times you’d pass the fancy cat on your daily military routines. these days, you’d fail to notice the desperate little girl in the seventh storey window who’d shine the afternoon sun on the golden ring her mother gave her, if only to get your attention. by now, she knew your shift off by heart. amongst all the people the young twelve year old distrusted, she thought you had the kindest face. 

the resistance were full of rich, perverted old men. when you heard rumors the escaped corvo had joined their forces, you pitied him. the chains of the rich still felt the same on your wrists. the infected bit all the same.

what will we do with the drunken firefly, the children in rotted rags would sing as mutilated bodies of infected and humans alike were harvested through the soft city morning light in the old capitol building, you notice the body you carried held a necklace engraved ‘tess’, and you wondered what life she lived, early in the morning.

it was rumored that piero was a scientist forced into work by the fireflies. gun in hand, they threatened everything: his life’s work, his family, his brain. god, his willing brain - a gift to humanity, the fireflies sung, harmonious and oh so violent, as if it were god’s very will, to anyone who would listen, including you. they say he met a young girl who’s biology could change it all, the lamb on the cutting edge you were told to protect, despite the surgeons whose hands would cut her cold, if only you wanted the medicine to say your mother who laughed on death’s door

and old sokolov, a scientist of the government turned resistance, who grew weary of his allies, reunited with piero at masked death’s decree. kill all three on site, says your commanding officer, his pants full with gold and women. you look him in his rested eyes and you see the boy behind him, smiling, and you push him into daud’s arms, who thanks you with a small smile. you don’t know how you did it, from meters away, but your hand burns.

these days, lying hoarfrost at the ocean, the boy often asks you not who you were, but who you would be, as he plays and cleans the whale guts out of the tainted strands of your messy, unkept hair. he asks you things from how you like your left hook from who you’d rather see win in the race of time: the infected or the uninfected or no one or yourself, alone in the entirety of the wretched world. instead, you ask him why it’s relevant and he asks you why you have your father’s blood painted on your lower abdomen, and he asks you why you didn’t help the president’s protector with the gift he gave you. he’s amused when you try to push his nimble, bloody knuckles away, and you ask him why he wears his collar too high, especially for a dead person. 

you let him take her. the scruffy man you saw once in your dreams. it means nothing to you now. 

now, six years later, you ask the boy what might have happened if you helped the little nineteen year old president. if you decided to slice the scruffy man’s throat that day he took the lamb. instead of musing you, he smiles. you are left with silence

#lovinthepizzalife #asks #dishonored #the outsider #corvo attano #daud #emily kaldwin #this is super late & got super long & i think i ranted a lot but. i am so PUMPED abt this au #my two fave games together......................... amazing #also this is from a random dunwall (where dunwall is washington's main settlement after the outbreak) citizen's pov #bc i am in /love/ with the idea that around the same time as the events of dh1 there was a working class citizen #who was marked - aka someone who COULD have done smth to help the royal protector but didnt - #instead they chose themselves #anyways! im in love w this au skdjskf