The Wanderer ran his fingers along the prosthetic arm, feeling the dark steel. He traced the intricate filigree of gears and metal tendons, a genuine smile was drawn across his lips against his intentions.
"One of our finest works," Zero said, observing the reaction. "As promised, your rewards will always be beyond your wildest imaginations."
The Wanderer’s grip tightened on the cold metal. The warm thought of getting his arm back vanished from his mind, replaced instantly by the thought of Serenya being held captive in some dark hole, terrified and alone.
He looked up. "Tell me, Zero... kidnapping Serenya was one of your plans, am I right?"
Zero wasn't surprised, or at least didn't show it. "Does she concern you, veteran?"
The Wanderer turned toward the leader, forcing a faked smile. "Can't say I hate her, but that's not my point. I'm just looking at the board."
"Nothing is off-limits for our cause," Zero said in a lower tone. "Anyway... won't you try on your new arm?"
The Wanderer looked back down at the complicated design, lifting the socket mechanism. "It's a masterpiece, I must say. You guys seem to have an endless pool of resources."
Zero stood up from his chair, and paced toward the Wanderer. "You have earned your place among us," he said smoothly, before reaching into his cloak and withdrew a white owl mask, handing it over. "But do not try to fish for information I haven't offered."
The Wanderer took the mask, and stared directly into the hollow eye sockets of Zero’s own mask, desperately picking apart the cadence of his voice, the way he carried his shoulders, trying to put a real face to the phantom.
Zero began to walk toward the exit of the private chamber, as he noticed the deep stares. "The arm is yours, and you will use it. Your features are currently recognized by every single guard and refugee in Valoria; the new limb will help your disguise."
The Wanderer chuckled darkly, holding up the prostatic limb. "The arm won't hide my face, Zero."
"The mask will," Zero countered, his voice beginning to fade as he stepped into the shadowed hallway. "Check the side buttons on the side."
Left alone in the room, the Wanderer turned the mask over in his hand, inspecting the inner lining. Tucked neatly near the side edge, he found two small, engraved buttons hidden beneath a layer of dark velvet padding.
He clicked them with his thumb, but nothing happened.
Confused, he hesitated for a moment before lifting the mask and placing it over his face, aligning his eyes with the slits. He reached to the side and pressed one of the engraved buttons through the velvet.
It clicked.
Suddenly, the mask violently clutched to his face. The Wanderer gasped, his instincts screaming as he grabbed the edges of the mask to rip it off, but it wouldn't budge. He pulled with all his strength, but a network of thin wires shot out from the interior frame, piercing straight into his skin.
He gritted his teeth against the sharp, biting pain. The wires slithered like parasites behind his ears and beneath his bearded chin burying themselves deep, settling precisely between his flesh and his skull until the framework fully engulfed his head.
The pain faded as if nothing happened.
The Wanderer breathlessly raised his hand, touching his cheeks, It felt like soft human skin, like his own skin.
In utter shock, he muttered, "What kind of sorcery is this...?"
He spun around the chamber, his eyes darting across the stone walls until he spotted a mirror in the corner. He rushed over to it, gripping the edges of the glass, and stared at his reflection.
A man he had never met before was staring back at him.
He pinched his cheek and tried to pull the mask off, but a sharp wince stopped him, it felt exactly like grabbing his own cheek and trying to tear it from the bone. Giving up on removal, he stared into the mirror and began experimenting with his expressions.
Anger, fear, and even a booming laughter, every single emotion rippled across his new features naturally. The skin creased, the brow furrowed, and the mouth moved in perfect synchronization with his actual face.
Then, he remembered the arm.
He quickly snapped his head toward the counter, pacing over to the mechanical prosthetic with an anticipation written across his unfamiliar face. He took one final look at the dark steel in his grip before bracing himself and sticking the socket mechanism directly against his empty right shoulder.
The micro-mechanical wires within the socket flared to life, tearing their way ruthlessly into his side, burrowing through muscle to clutch and forcefully bind with his dead nerves. The agony was far worse this time. A scream tore from his throat as he collapsed to the stone floor, his right hand clutching his shoulder in pain.
The new arm began to glow. A rapid layer of synthetic flesh crawled along the metallic frame, shifting and blending in color until it perfectly matched his natural skin tone.
The searing pain finally stopped.
Laying on his back and drawing breaths, the Wanderer slowly focused his mind on his left side and wiggled his new fingers.
They moved.
He pushed himself up and raised the newly formed arm, turning his wrist and testing the range of motion, only to get frustrated.
The movements were incredibly clunky, it felt like clumsily swinging a heavy iron tool.
He stared at the perfectly shaped flesh fingers and muttered bitterly, "They put all their efforts into the looks, not the usage, I guess."
Roger stepped into the private chamber. "Did you really have to scream that loud? You’re waking the dead up there."
The Wanderer blinked in surprise, his clunky new hand dropping to his side. "You recognized me?"
Roger smirked, pointing a finger to his own right eye. "I've got the gift of the Owls, too, friend. I see right through the glamor."
The recruiter stretched out a hand to help him up from the floor. "Come on. I'll show you where you're going to stay."
The Wanderer took Roger's arm, pulling himself to his feet. "Can I leave the facility?"
Roger shrugged, turning toward the hidden exit. "You're a completely new man now. Do as you wish. But first, you need to assume your new identity."
Roger handed over a thick bundle of official parchments and a bronze sigil.
"From this moment on, you are Vincent Dragonborn," Roger explained, his voice turning businesslike. "A seasoned guard hailing from Hosar who just received a prestigious offer to work directly for Judge Baldwin here in the capital. You'll find every piece of background info you need in those documents. The Judge is already prepared to accept you into his ranks, so don't worry about a thing."
The Wanderer took the parchments and tucked them into his belt while Roger showed him a windowless room deeper in the facility that he could use until his scheduled meeting with Baldwin.
The next day, the Wanderer changed into new clothes provided by Roger. He carefully attached the bronze sigil to his breastplate before stepping out into the bustling streets of Valoria.
He headed straight toward the refugee camp, keeping a firm posture. With every few steps, he paused to look at shop glass or turn a corner sharply, carefully checking if anyone from the Owls or the city guard was tailing him.
As he crossed the perimeter of the refugee camp, the atmosphere was thick with anxiety. He moved past two Valorian soldiers leaning against a wooden barricade, overheard them talking about the escape of the dangerous fugitive and the severely injured camp captain.
Ignoring them, he slipped through the familiar dirt lanes and ducked straight into Zeek’s tent. Inside, Zeek’s messenger was rustling through a stack of reports. He snapped his head up instantly, his hand dropping to his hilt. "Who are you? State your business."
The Wanderer quickly gestured for silence, keeping his voice a low hiss. "I'm the Wanderer. Don't make a sound."
The man stared at him, his brow furrowed in deep confusion. "Nice try. Who the hell are you really?"
The Wanderer reached up to his ear and clicked the second button on the mask.
The mask hissed loudly, a small jet of steam venting from the seam behind his ears. The synthetic flesh rippled, dissolving back into the porcelain of the white owl mask. The Wanderer grabbed the edges and pulled it completely off his face, revealing his sweating skin.
The messenger gasped, taking a sharp step back. "What in the goddamn hell is that?!"
"Lower your voice, damn it!" the Wanderer snapped, throwing the mask onto the desk. "It’s a device they gave me. I don’t know how the sorcery behind it works."
The messenger hesitated, his eyes darting from the porcelain mask to the Wanderer’s face. "You shouldn't be here. If anyone sees you-"
"I had to come," the Wanderer interrupted. "Where is Zeek?"
"He’s in the infirmary," the messenger said, rubbing his own neck nervously. "You hit him incredibly hard. He hasn't regained consciousness yet."
The Wanderer stepped closer. "Where is Serenya?"
"Whatever is going on in your head right now, drop it," the messenger warned. "The captain gave you orders."
The Wanderer lunged forward and grabbed the messenger with his new right arm. "Tell me where Serenya is, or I’ll blow this whole damn operation wide open. I did this for Zeek, but I am far beyond playing his game now."
The messenger looked down in shock at the synthetic flesh of the arm, feeling the unnatural power behind it, then back to the Wanderer's face. "What’s your plan?"
"I’m getting her back."
"Alone?" the messenger asked.
"I have my ways."
The Wanderer violently shoved the messenger backward against the wooden desk. "Where is she!"
The messenger caught his breath, looking at the anger in the warrior's face. "Zeek is going to absolutely hate this."
"I’ve done more than enough for Zeek," the Wanderer countered, pushing him further.
The messenger stared at him for a tense moment, then forcefully pushed the mechanical hand away from his chest, and muttered, "Fine. I'll draw you a map."