On yet another of the endless foggy nights that had embraced Alderbridge for centuries, the Faceless Man stood on the corner, waiting for his first sacrifice to the Faceless God to appear. Through the draped windows of the bar across the street, he could see the outlines of off-duty dockers engaged in gambling, drinking, and gossiping. He glanced up at the clock on the corner. Mounted high enough to be protected from any drunkard, and updated by a steam pulse sent every minute from one of the central timepieces in the royal district, these clocks reliably gave the time to the citizens of Alderbridge. Although many of the working class had complained that the new accurate time clocks just made it easier for management to control their time and punish them for being late, the clocks had brought a sense of stability to a city that desperately needed it. The newspapers had said that with the new system, Alderbridge was a capital as modern and controlled as any that might be found on the continent. The poor joked that now everyone could take comfort in knowing the exact moment of their death.
The hands showed just a few more minutes to midnight. The Faceless Man cared little for the time. The only difference would be which day Martin would die. Draped in the shadows, waiting for the next pulse of air to drive the minute hand one minute closer to the next day of his life, Faceless Man felt oddly calm. He had never killed before, or at least, not that he could remember, but the thought did little to move his heart. In a way, not being alarmed at the thought of murder alarmed him even more. Compared to the death of his family and the things he saw in that chamber beneath the water, what could the death of one man do to move him? Feeling his thoughts start to wander back to those that he had walked countless times over sleepless nights the past few weeks, he shifted to focus on his breathing.
Elisia. Elisia.
Calmed and focused, he glanced up at the clock again. A few minutes had passed and it was now officially Friday. Martin was allotted Saturday off this week, and there were no important shipments scheduled for the day, so the Faceless Man could only assume Martin was in no rush to get home and be well rested for his final working day. The Faceless man had been inside the bar earlier and watched Martin and his coworkers get a proper drunk going over a game of dice. Martin traditionally had poor luck with dice, and tonight was likely to be no different. Anticipating Martin storming out in a rage, the Faceless Man had slipped out of the bar early to get into position. However, as the hours went on the other patrons slowly made their way out of the club. Finally, Martin left, stumbling slightly and seemingly in high spirits, with another docker by the name of Sly. Sly was a friend of Martin’s, a veteran stevedore with a reputation for filching from whatever cargo crossed his path. No one had been able to catch him in the act, however, so he remained a hero to many of the young workers aspiring to get the most out of as little work as possible.
The Faceless Man cursed under his breath. He had planned on Martin being alone tonight. Martin always walked the same path home at night, varying only in which alley he stopped to relieve himself. Having Sly as a lookout would make replacing Martin unnoticed nearly impossible.
The Faceless Man watched the two exchange a few final words, inaudible over the distance, and then watched Sly turn the other direction, towards another man who was waiting down the street. Martin watched the two of them for a moment and then, whistling a slightly off key version of an old Navy tune, began his own walk home. The Faceless Man didn’t think it appropriate to give thanks to the Creator, but the thought had crossed his mind as he slowly shifted into the shadows to begin his pursuit.
At this hour, the streets were deserted and the city asleep. Martin made his way home oblivious to the evil that was following him. The Faceless Man had spent far too many hours wandering the streets at night since he had first pulled himself out of the river, and he moved from shadow to shadow with a practiced grace. Martin, the proud sailor of the Imperial Navy, perhaps once would have been a far more alert and dangerous target, but years of hard living and harder drinking had dulled his edge. As they neared an alley where Martin would often stop for a piss, the Faceless Man felt like everything was ready to smoothly fall into place. Martin didn’t stop, however, and with a shambling determination, he continued on his way.
The second of Martin’s usual spots was also passed through without hesitation, and the Faceless Man began to get nervous. They were already halfway towards home. What if Martin wasn’t as drunk as he hoped he would be? If Martin didn’t stop to relieve himself, the Faceless Man could simply try again another day, but if Martin was sober enough to recognize the danger, he could be in for a more serious fight. Even worse, if he was sober enough to recognize he was being followed, he could be much more difficult to ambush. The Faceless Man quickly ducked out of sight and made a quick check to be sure Sly or someone else wasn’t following him. He waited a moment to be sure and then hurried along to catch up to Martin.
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The Faceless Man caught up to Martin just as he neared another of his usual spots, an alley near a small stream running off the river. The sound of water covered up the sounds of business and provided sufficient auditory motivation for those nights that it wouldn’t flow. Martin slowed slightly as he approached the alley, as if deciding if he could hold it for a few more minutes until he got home. Despite slowing, Martin walked a few steps past it seemingly in no urgency, but after a few steps, he paused. With a quick look around to see if there were any police or lamplighters or anyone who might chase him out, he turned around and shambled into the alley.
After a quick look around on his own, the Faceless Man drew his dagger. He stared at the black blade, soon to be stained for the first time with blood. His hand shook, the calm he had so carefully gathered in front of the bar now completely gone and only moments remaining to gather it.
Elisia. Elisia.
As he repeated the name his hand grew still. His eyes opened. He took one last breath and rushed into the alley. Martin was against the wall relieving himself. In that dark alley, where the only witness was the moon peering through the veil of fog, the Faceless Man struck.
Martin was a former soldier, a veteran of the wars in the colonies, and even as drunk as he was, his reflexes were still enough to turn himself around and dodge the first strike. He peddled backwards, fumbling to bring his pants back. The Faceless Man rushed forward with another strike and Martin batted it away, attempting to run past his assailant while he was overextended. The Faceless Man stuck out a leg and managed to catch Martin’s ankle. They both fell with a splash onto the waterlogged pavement. The Faceless Man threw himself on top of Martin, desperate not to let his chance at a new life slip away. Together they struggled in that dark alley until finally, the Faceless Man was firmly on top, his dagger poised to strike.
In that moment, the moon broke through the fog and shone down on the alley, illuminating the Faceless Man’s scared face. Martin gazed up in terror, his eyes locked on his death as his mind conjured memories of the things he had seen in those jungles years ago.
“What… are you?” Martin asked. Those were to be his final words. At that, the Faceless Man struck. As the knife descended, a darkness gathered around the blade, its formless mass striking Martin’s flesh at the same time as the steel. The darkness flooded off the blade, running under and over Martin’s skin, causing him to violently tremble as it sucked the last bit of life from him. The Faceless Man would not allow himself to look away. He kept his eyes locked on Martin’s as the darkness did its work, eventually covering all. At that, Martin at last lay still.
Suddenly, the darkness began to reverse, flying back up the knife and running over the Faceless Man. The mass of darkness that was once Martin began to shrink and it was the Faceless Man’s turn to feel its icy touch. He fought back a scream as he felt his body changing. His nose grew, as did his bones as they stretched to match the height of the taller man. His limbs were on fire as his muscles broke down and repaired themselves with the strength of the former sailor and dock worker. The Faceless Man could feel spasms throughout his body and remembered the insects he had seen crawling over the Faceless God. He moaned as the pain intensified, the darkness covering his eyes now and leaving him with nothing but the will to hold on.
Elisia!
Later, how much later he was never sure, he found his will had held out and he lay there alone in the alley, his knife still clenched in his hand and Martin’s clothes the only sign of the struggle that had just taken place there. In the back of his mind, he felt a sense of approval, as if the Faceless God was standing in the alley observing his actions like a watchful parent. What father wouldn’t be proud of a murder? Standing up, the Faceless Man, now Martin, took a few cautious steps forward. His balance was different from his previous body, but he had seemingly inherited Martin’s muscle memory and he walked without stumbling. With a thought the Faceless Dagger disappeared. Those memories thankfully stayed with him as well.
Walking over to the clothes, he picked them up, and taking a quick look around, retreated deeper into the alley to change into them. They were filthy from all the rolling in the mud. He ran his fingers along the cut where his knife had entered Martin. Through some magic there was no blood, but the cut looked too perfect to be an accident. He pulled at it with his hands, distorting it enough that he could possibly pass it off as getting caught on a nail or something.
The Faceless Man rolled up his old clothes and stuck them in a corner. He could have one of Jacques’ birds pick them up in the morning. He looked around for a reflective surface to check his appearance in, but the water on the street was far too muddy to be of any use. With a sigh, he made for the entrance of the alley, rehearsing in his head how he would explain this to Boudica.
A few steps from the entrance, he remembered he was supposed to be drunk. The Faceless Man paused, sighed again as he closed his eyes and tried to remember the drunken gait of the man he had just spent the night following. He led with his left foot, weight following too far forward, nearly stumbled, and then caught himself with the right foot. Resisting the urge to laugh at himself, he left the alley, turning right in the direction of Martin and Boudica’s house. He had only made it a few dozen feet when he heard a voice behind him.
“Martin?”
