#Im here to talk about the whalers and very obscure headcanons about how they function and what little things they do etc etc

[no-light-left-on]

short fic exploring one of my headcanons for the Whalers. takes place right after The Surge

“That should be all of them,” Rulfio mutters as he sets the last body in the line.

Thomas hums in acknowledgement. He’s removed the masks of the dead to identify the novices, though he is not sure of all of them. They’ll have to call in others for identification – most of these men were not his students, nor Rulfio’s. The dead masters are lined up close by.

“That’s about a quarter of our forces,” Thomas sighs. He stays by the bodies of the novices. Two of them are older than him by several years. Three never got to reach adulthood.

“Thomas?” Rulfio calls from where he’s kneeling by the body of a dead master assassin. He sheaths his knife when his friend turns to face him and he pockets the silver button he removed from the body. “You’re spacing out.”

“I’m sorry,” Thomas says. “I… I taught this kid.” He looks down at the face of the boy at his feet. He’s pressed his eyes in but a part of him hopes that he’ll open them again. “His name was Andrei. We were going to name him master next week.” He sighs and his breath shudders like wind against the broken windows of the refinery. “The silver buttons were finished just yesterday.”

Rulfio nods. His throat dried up as Thomas spoke and there is little comfort he can offer as Thomas stares at the young man. He couldn’t have been older than twenty.

“You should give them to Daud,” he offers instead. It’s the closest thing he can give to condolences. “I’m sure he will keep them.”

“Right,” Thomas breathes. He sniffles and wipes his eyes before tears can fall. “I’ll see to that.” He straightens his back, blinks a few times. If his mask was on, Rulfio wouldn’t be able to tell that he’s holding back tears. “You should report to Daud. I’ll see if I can get someone to identify the rest.”

***

“We have gathered the dead,” Rulfio announces with a fist pressed to his heart. He bows curtly and rests his hands behind his back, shoulders set.

Daud sits at his desk among the mess of torn curtains and Abbey symbols. The adornments lie on a pile of fabric and trash but the papers remain. Daud insists on examining them once the more important matters are dealt with. He looks up from the battle plans Overseer Hume left on his desk and meets Rulfio’s eyes.

“What are our losses?” His voice grates. He hasn’t slept since returning from Timsh’s. The Mark aches with shredded bonds.

“Seven novices and eight masters,” Rulfio states. He takes a deep breath to even his voice – he is to report numbers. Not dead friends. “Thirteen more masters are on bedrest unable to perform their duties, along with three novices. Eight more have sustained injuries light enough to be employed in cleaning the place or going on patrols. We have not seen a sign of Lurk since you exiled her.”

Daud takes a deep breath, nods. “Good,” he mutters. “That’s nearly half our forces down.” He leans back in his chair as he thinks. “We’ll draw further in,” he announces then. “Change the pathways wherever possible. Everyone is to stay within the heart of the district with only hard to reach outposts on the outside until we have more people available to patrol.” He taps his lips with a gloved thumb. “Have Thomas come see me so we can set up new patrol rotations. The men that worked through the night are to go and rest once they are done with their duties.”

Rulfio presses his fist to his chest and bows. “Sir.”

Daud does not dismiss him then. They both stay still as dust settles in the air, floating through the rays cascading through the tall windows, now bare and gaping into the world. Daud can see three master assassins throwing bodies into a fire from his desk.

“Rulfio,” he speaks with an exhausted resignation. They both know what has to come next. “Do you have the names?”

Rulfio nods and steps closer. He reaches into his pocket and the small silver bulbs ring as he pulls them out.

“These have been gathered from the waistcoats of the recovered bodies of the masters,” he announces. “Anthony. Leon. Geoff.” He takes each button with a careful hand and turns them over, tracing over every name with a gloved finger as he sets the silver buttons on the desk in front of Daud. “Sean. Nicholas. Finn.” His voice gets waterlogged, each name stickier and wetter than the one before, like the streets of the Flooded District. “Tynan. And Fergus.”

Daud stares at the collection of silver on his desk. Neither of them move, the finality of the silver buttons somewhat heavier than the sight of the actual bodies. Daud sighs and gathers the buttons in his hand.

“You’re dismissed.”