Archive of Our Own ^beta

Blink and you'll miss me, was what Corvo thought the first time he turned into a prick of light in the real world, the dark and drizzling street, and shot from one balcony to the next. It'd been disorienting in the Void, all blue-gray open space and shambling landmarks, but there—in the air, in the moment of a back turned and a conversation peaking—it was safety.

The scene under him has moved: lights out, a figure huddled at a back window, the next one over from where it started. He might have a better view from the small balcony overhead rather than atop this streetlight—had been on his way out, stymied by the lack of entries, when he caught sight of the figure in the bushes. Maybe the trip wouldn't be completely wasted, he'd considered, stopping to watch. He could always return to sniff through Lord Farthing's business on another sleepless night.

He eyes the distance to the balcony—might need a starting jump—crouches lower, springs, and catches sight of the figure turning towards him just as he turns to light.

The split second of movement stretches out with thought: couldn't have seen, streetlight was behind me, moved just in time, and then his soles hit the balcony rail in silence and down below the figure is already looking up at him, already moving, the spark of eyes in its hood meeting his like they followed the light.

And then they're there—next to him—a familiar flicker around them—he leaps back, blinks to the next balcony over, then the roof, tiles solid but grating against each other, too loud, the pinch of Void-burn in his hand and chest and he starts forward on foot to give himself time to recover but the figure in the hood appears nearly on top of him and they stumble and almost slide and his back hits the tiles—hope no one hears enough to come looking—and his hand moves to grab a wrist before he's fully registered that there's a knife being pressed to his throat. Their arms tense and twist and hold, neither giving ground. Corvo looks up into the hood.

The scar—no. He's not supposed to be here.

"You're the one who's been watching me?" Daud, wanted assassin, hisses incredulously.

"The Greaves job?" Cleaned out when he got there. "The Perth-Warrens?" That time he'd caught sight of someone leaving and never managed to catch them.

Daud edges back, barely a sliver of an inch, and then their standoff with the knife has it jerking closer to his chin, Corvo's crushing grip taking the upper hand. It evens out again with Daud gritting his teeth. His eyes flick between Corvo's a moment, mouth tight, face not giving anything more away.

"Window locks won't slide," he grunts. "You could break the glass. Or I hear there's a way in from the river." Then his arm twists in Corvo's hold and in a second he's gone, Corvo surging up to follow then settling, stopping, ears open for commotion from inside the house.

It's not the night for it. He'll deal with both problems later.