This thread is non-canon.
Glade 55th, 4622
Ah, Amoren.
Every waste-begotten little weight upon his soul evaporated as Vesper stepped foot off that train, clothing baked by weather, patches of fur run ragged by a toiling season of work. The Badlands had taken their toll, and it was time for Vesper to pivot from yet another dead end to something more.
“Aye,” Vesper hailed a carriage, hefting his briefcase onto the cart. “Noble quarter, Dela-Da’ruth Inn,” he told the man. The horseless carriage moved of its own accord, Vesper’s glazed eyes lost as he stared out the slatted window at the slivers of crowds with naught a drop of inspiration behind his tired eyes.
Where is my mind, in all of this? Who am I now?
Who should I become?
And how long before the Brotherhood comes for me?
Vesper sighed. The pangs of his Purpose seemed so distant now. Being the lapdog of a god seemed like his ticket to freedom from an impossible compulsion to control all that he knows.
Thrusting himself out of the cabin, Vesper hobbled with his luggage into the inn, renting a lavishly expensive room with glazed eyes and the twitch of a tail. Emerging up the stairs, room key in paw, he pushed the key into the lock and then hesitated.
Music. His ears flicked. Sniff. Perfume. No…
Judging by the warmth blooming in his pants, this was no simple perfume.
Crack. The door swung open, and a long-nailed hand shot out, yanking him by the collar of his jack and into the swirling cloud of sights and scents, profane magickry livening every detail. Vesper’s wide eyes darted back and forth, already feeling the Weave bubble beneath his palms as it expanded through the room.
Smack. The door whomped shut. The tall woman that held him turned and dropped the cat in a seat, though he remained quite still without a word, showing no hint of fear.
“So this is the one?” mused the pointy-faced brunette.
Clap, clap. “You’ve got that correct,” rumbled a man to the side, his dapper jack and feathered top hat angled forward. “And he’s more than capable of taking at least a few of us with him, my dear, so please step back and give our guest some space.” Click click. The tap of a cane to Vesper’s chair had him finally taking a breath, piecing together the situation.
“I hold no malice for Brazim, nor his flock. He may have cast me aside…” Vesper carefully rasped, spying the cabal of seven… eight, surrounding him, on edge. “I hold no malice. I will keep your secrets.”
“You’re a loose end, Vespanasian Catineau,” replied the man. “A promise is not enough.” He leaned closer, Vesper wrinkling his nose and turning his face aside. He hated breathing those pheromones, let alone a room full of Corvo.
“Why not poison me?” Vesper questioned. “You have a proposition, then?”
“I have a question,” replied the man. “Would you allow for your memories to be Falsified? We would rest at ease knowing our secrets were… shall I say, under lock and key?” he breathed out, reaching for Vesper’s cheek, but the cat smacked it out of the way rather than risk the barb of a hand that could turn to metal claws in the blink of an eye.
Vesper’s eyes peeled. His lips curled to one side in thought. “Even if I were to agree with this, I will share with you - to build trust - that my Mind Palace is organized into islands, and one of them is quite fractured. If you are going to falsify an identity for me, I would wish to remain Rathor—I presume this entails a new body as well, to disassociate my sense of self?”
Disassociation…
A new identity.
Vesper’s ear twitched, tail flicking behind him through the back of the chair. “Hm, I could architect a new approach for my Purpose, lessen my perceptions… I should like to keep my assets, however.” He sighed. “I will entertain this, if it will keep me out of your crosshairs.”
“A new body, yes,” mused the wealthy man, pulling back his top hat to reveal a young face with blonde curly-cues and bright, blue eyes. “I have a Rathor in my employ, of coyote seeming. She will be the template for your transformation. Our Necrodoctors shall ensure a flawless transition, in every sense. From what I am told, you hold no attachment to your masculinity; is this true?”
Vesper nodded without hesitation. “This is true. I will begin a new island for her memories when I next slumber; in truth, I welcome this as a …treatment, for who I have become.” He glanced between them, blinking. “Do not betray someone who could be of use in the future. This person — she — will have my understanding, my mind, my Quirks. We must implant new memories that make her satisfied with the barriers in her mind; she will find them.”
The woman from before leering down at him with a mischievous smile. “She’s a cute one. I’d welcome having another one of -her- around.”
Baring his teeth in a cringe of disgust. “Gah, you lot best not leave her with child — this is something I will not condone.” He rattled his fingers along the arm of the chair, squeezing the wood with his claws. To think that there was an idea that filled even -him- with discomfort!
The man in the hat burst out laughing. “Nonsense, we’d never!” he said. Another man coughed in the background, cutting through the banter. “Okay, okay. You understand us very well, Vesper. We promise not to - leave with child - the new you.”
“I would like to meet this Rathor,” said Vesper, touching his fingers together. “To know her, so that I can copy fragments of her identity.”
Clicking his tongue, the man nodded. “I will fetch her immediately.” Creak. Slam.
“Why slam doors?” Vesper shrugged to the nearest body standing guard around the chair: a shirtless man in the corner.
“Mister Trite has always been that way,” said the clean-shaven, oily-skinned brute of muscle. His voice was small and foreign in spite of his size. “He likes you, I think. Normally as you said: poison.” The man’s Gentevarese was clarly unrefined, but that didn’t bother Vesper.
A few moments later, top-hat-man returned. Creak. “Don’t slam the door,” Vesper growled. Creak, clack. The man stepped aside to reveal a pointy-faced canine with brown features, clad in a tight dress and several piercings dangling from one ear.
“Ah, hello,” she wiggled her padded fingers at everyone. “Is this father’s business?”
Vesper blinked. ”In your employ?” he wondered to the man.
“Family business—her mother and I have high hopes for her. Deena,” he turned, taking her paw. “You will spend the day with this man, and tell him much about yourself.”
Deena smiled, then looked again to Vesper. “Okay, so long as he’s nice to me.” She looked around the room at everyone else. “Oh my, who are all these pretty boys? And they smell good, like—hah.” She ate her last words, putting a paw at her hip. “And what’s your name?”
Vesper had been utterly, mentally, beneath lock and key for seasons now. “Ves-“
“Aeva,” interrupted Mister Trite, leering at him. “His name is Aeva, and he will be remade in your likeness.”
Deena winced. “What!?”
Her words dipped to a hushed whisper, rasping furiously with her father as they stepped out into the hall, bantering as Vesper was left to tap his claws idly. Everyone else looked utterly dumbfounded. Another started humming.
“This is absurd,” chuckled Vesper.
The woman from before bit her lip. “I will admit, the facade competence melts away in the presence of … family outside our ranks. I will have his ear when all of this is over with.”
The two returned to the room, and Deena still looked a bit nervous, forcing an uneasy smile.
Vesper spoke up as soon as their eyes met. “It’s a pleasure, Deena. I, am Aeva,” he said carefully. “I am the quiet and observant sort.” Rolling forward on his heels, he stood, then fell to his knees before her, ears folded as he took away the beret from between them and held it abreast. “It will be my honor to be remade in the countenance of someone with such beauty. I will treat this arrangement with the gravitas and respect you deserve.”
Deena seemed uncomfortable, blinking at him. “Well, ah, Aeva, um. Yeah, I appreciate that. Truth be tol’ I always wanted a sis!” she laughed. “Never thought I’d get a fully grown one.” Her tone dipped markedly at that last statement. “You seem nice enough. Why are you doing that, though?”
Vesper blinked. “Is she not at least Vier?” he asked her father.
“We’re working on that,” her father sighed. “She won’t marry.” He turned to her. “Prostration is a gesture of trust among the Entente and their Vier artisans,” he explained. “He has worked with them for everlong, and I am told he is not from your homeland.”
“Oh, ‘kay,” she mumbled, peering around the room. “Why’re all you so quiet?”
“Don’t mind them, dear. They’re just his guards,” said Mister Trite with a hand-waive.
“Guards that pretty? I know prostitutes when I see them, dad! I don’t want my new sister to be a slut!” she groused in a huff, pointing down menacingly at him as if he were some kind of dirty creature.
Vesper slid his palm over his face, dejected. Just what did I agree to? This was a terrible idea; such great fuckery.
