The glow of the factory made devils of its workers. Bodies strained against the glare, shoveling coal into boilers, pouring molten metal into molds, beating, shaping, breaking, and remaking to the horrid cacophony that was progress.

Connor stood on the scaffold watching it all happen. Even with his collar loose the heat of the factory was still damningly oppressive, his starched uniform clinging to him like a desperate lover. He took a sip of water from his canteen, now rendered lukewarm by the demonic warmth, before slipping it back onto his belt, his gloved knuckles brushing against the pommel of his sword. 

Past the dirty, grimy windows, snow fell in fat, heavy flakes, accumulating along the sills. Hard to believe that it was winter outside, given the oppressive heat. Most of the workers had stripped down to their undergarments, scarred and burned arms more than just telling of the current working conditions. He watched on as a pair of children dragged a barrel full of Vibrata slag, the hot, mercurial slurry slopping dangerously close to one side.

"It would be most unwise if we kept Lord Beckett waiting, Mr. Trow," One of the factory supervisors said to him, a clean-looking man with clean nails and a clean face. He dabbed the sweat from his face with an equally clean handkerchief.

"Right, just checking the perimeter. You can't be too careful in my line of work. Safety has always been a priority for Her Majesty." Connor turned his attention back to the workers. One of them had stopped pushing a cart full of ingots to rub a knot out of their back. A factory thug quickly noticed, harping at the man to keep working.

"I doubt they'll be hiring assassins anytime soon," The supervisor said, chuckling wryly at his own joke, only to stifle it with a well-placed cough when Connor didn't join in. "But yes, safety is paramount in this line of work. Rest assured that Lord Beckett has done everything he can to ensure the safety of his workers." There was a pause as a high-pitched scream tore through the factory. One of the children dragging the slurry barrel had tugged too hard in one direction, spilling molten slag over her hands. One of the thugs quickly intervened, scooping her up in his arms and scurrying her away. A new child appeared soon after, and the work continued.

"But accidents are always inevitable in this line of work. You'll make sure to add that to your report, yes?" The supervisor quickly added, flashing Connor a watery smile. Before he could answer, though, a set of large double doors banged open as one of Lord Beckett's supervisors stepped through. Unlike the clean and portly man, this one was taller, leaner, meaner. A handful of thugs trailed close behind, carrying clubs and dark looks that dared anyone to step out of line. A few of the factory workers shirked away out of instinct.

"All right, boys!" The supervisor bellowed, his voice thick and throaty from the smoke that constantly billowed out of the foundries. "Cool everything down and head outside. Lord Beckett's got a speech prepared for you lot!" A little something to raise the spirits on top of a well-needed break. Unpaid, of course." A few of the thugs chuckled at that. A few workers followed suit to stay compliant.

Connor watched as the factory powered down, levers being pulled and valves being sealed before the mass of unwashed bodies began shuffling through the doors. Immediately the hellish heat began to dissipate, replaced by winter's chill as it seeped back inside. 

"Well," the supervisor said, dabbing one last streak of sweat from his temples. "That appears to be your cue." He swept out a hand. "Shall we go then?"

Connor nodded and followed the man outside. They filed down a set of cramped stairs towards the base level, meandering through the machinery towards a narrow hallway. Even with his thin frame, he found the act of slipping past difficult, more than once nearly burning himself on the still molten surface. How the workers did this on a daily business, he couldn't comprehend. Maybe that's why Lord Beckett hired children.

Past the narrow hall, an archway yawned open to a large open forum, the factory's road dock, where finished goods were carted outside for transport or sale. Lord Beckett and a few of his attendants stood on a podium overlooking the yard, dressed appropriately for the weather with fine, heavy coats and the typical stovetop hat that denoted a man of wealth in the city of Talis. That and the gold rings glinting on their fingers.

The workers, however, were less than adequately prepared. Even with the heavy snowfall, most didn't seem to have coats, even less possessed shoes. A pair of children stood huddling together, graced soon by a kind-looking man swaddling them both in a thin blanket.

"My Lord," The supervisor said once he reached the top of the podium. He gave Beckett a stiff bow before shuffling to the side.

"Well, took you long enough." The nobleman growled, tapping his cane expectantly on the wood floor of the podium. "I've already wasted enough of my time today speaking to these simpletons." Beckett was well known amidst the League of Merchants for his lack of patience, his life dictated by the silver pocket watch chained to his side. His well-groomed mustaches twitched with peevish agitation, trimmed in a fashion to hide the various chins he'd accumulated in life.

"Apologies," Connor bowed as well, more out of formality than anything else. "I was busy surveying the upper balconies with one of your supervisors." Lord Beckett continued to glare at him. "So far, there haven't been any signs of malcontent." He added, making sure to keep his tone cordial. While the nobleman may have had the temperament of a coddled prince, he was still under the protection of her majesty's Knights, which meant playing nice.

"Hmph." Lord Beckett fidgeted with the thick scarf around his neck, tied expertly in the shape of a noose or a nanny knot, depending on who you asked. "The men I hired from Skimper are more than enough to keep my workers in line. I hired you for one reason and one reason only, Mr. Trow." He leaned in, breath heavy with the musk of gin. "To protect me."

Connor wanted to say he was doing precisely that. Five hours ago, he'd been searching the factory for hidden caches, assessing the workforce, surveying vantage points that could be used by anyone during the speech, but instead, he said, "Speaking of which, Mr. Beckett—,"

"Lord Beckett."

"Yes, Lord Beckett." Connor bit back his frustration. "About the second-story window on the west side of the Forum. The one directly in front of your podium."

"What about it?"

"I think it would be wise to post a couple more men up there. Just in case anything goes out of hand."

"It would seem our Knight in shining armor here thinks the workers are going to hire an assassin against you, sir," The supervisor said with a sly grin. A couple of Beckett's entourage loudly guffawed at that.

Connor sucked in a tight breath and blew it out. "Not assassins, but it does pay to be careful. I was hired to protect you after all," and he eyed the others, his gaze stopping on the clean-looking supervisor. "Not the rest of you."

That quickly shut them up. Lord Beckett, however, waved an undiscerning hand. "Yes, yes. Like you said, I told a few of Skimper's men to hold up there. Honestly, though, you give this rabble way too much credit. We're dealing with factory workers, Mr. Trow, not imperial spies. I doubt they'll do anything besides lamenting their woes to the closest brothel wench that's paid to listen. Your paranoia has cost me a lot of money so far." He jabbed his cane for emphasis. "I expect the Crown to compensate me accordingly."

"I can speak to her majesty on your behalf," Connor said with a forced smile. 

"See that you do," Lord Beckett sniffed, hacked, and spat brown phlegm onto the ground. "Now, if we're done here, I have a speech to give." The man stepped towards the crowd, eyeing the lot of them to discern their value, or the lack thereof. "Good morning, everyone!" he proclaimed with outstretched arms, his voice elevating with false modesty. Some of the thugs circling the crowd cleared their throats audibly. The workers were quick to voice their own greetings.

"Now, I've gathered you all here today due to a little rumor I've heard being whispered around here. That I'm not paying you enough. That I'm overworking you. That I'm exploiting you." He especially emphasized the last part. "But I can assure you all that this is not the case. I care deeply for each and every one of you. As if you were family, of a sort. And a good family needs to stick together if they want to survive." He paused to brush a bit of snow off the shoulder of his well-tailored coat. "The truth is that the economy has not been kind to us this year. As some of you may know, the Kardish has buckled down along our borders, making the production of Vibrata an absolute necessity to continue our way of life. Indeed, it is our very own majesty who demanded I up production to meet her hellish demands. Furthermore—,"

Connor stopped listening after that. It was clear as day the Lord had no reason to speak the actual truth, that it was easier to simply shift the blame elsewhere. Towards a particular target the workers had no fathomable chance of touching. Her majesty had in possession at least a hundred well-trained Knights, not counting the palace guard and the city's auxiliary. Indeed, Beckett might as well have told them it was God who was making their lives unfair. She was just as unreachable.

"That's a crock of shit!" Someone shouted from the crowd, cutting Beckett off from his speech. He frowned with disdain before waving two fingers, signaling one of the thugs. The thick-necked man pushed past the crowd, grabbing one of the workers by the scruff and hauling him off. He didn't get very far.

There was a loud crack as someone brained the thug with a loose brick. It came seemingly out of nowhere, and the thug let go of the worker to clutch his skull, blood pooling out of the gash. More of Skimper's men pressed forward, the crowd buzzing with apprehension as they were pushed, jostled, angry murmurs building up like steam without release.

"Mr. Beckett," Connor said, sensing trouble, but the man quickly shushed him.

"Everyone, please settle down. There's no need for violence! We have to stand united!"

"How can we do that when you can't even pay us proper!" Another angry voice proclaimed. Workers were getting dragged now, shoved aside.

"Mr. Beckett," Connor said again, louder this time.

"As I told you, it is the economy causing all this, not me. I have been forced to cut costs at every level. Isn't that right?" Mr. Beckett turned to his richly dressed entourage, who were quick to nod their approval.

"We want a real wage!" More shouts, more jeering. "Honest pay for honest work!" Someone started to chant. 

Connor clenched his jaw. That was Union talk. Now things were getting out of hand. "Mr. Beckett, I think it would be wise we depart." He barely finished the sentence when a scream split through the air. One of Skimper's men grabbed a child by the hair, pulling them out of a woman's arms. A flash of steel and a knife slid through the thug's throat, punching out the back of his neck.

Chaos erupted through the Forum. Skimper's men pulled out more weapons, clubs, knives, brass knuckles, plowing through the crowd with merciless abandon. Beckett and the rest of his entourage stood there, mouths agape, the sight of actual violence freezing them in place. One of the thugs smashed a worker across the head with a jack only to have his own broken by a piece of loose timber. Another stabbed a worker trying to climb onto the podium.

And then Connor saw it. One of the workers pulled something from his coat pocket, the familiar glint of refined Vibrata, molded into the chosen shape of a weapon he'd used back in her majesty's army. 

"Chime!" There was only a moment to react. The worker aimed the slim, bell-shaped tube of metal at Beckett, both hands clutching the polished wooden grip. With a squeeze of the trigger, the clapper at the back of the tube came down, striking the surface. A clear, sharp note cut through the noise as the Vibrata oscillated beyond hearing, the bullet shooting out.

Connor pursed lips and whistled. Instantly the sword at his side jumped out of its sheath, a razor's edge of silver moving at blinding speed. It flew across the podium, slicing past Beckett and cutting the bullet clean in two before hurling back. The pieces flew off in either direction, one impacting into a column behind the podium, the other shooting clean through the top of a stovetop hat that one of Beckett's entourages was wearing.

Connor caught the sword as the Forum grew silent. Worker and thug alike stared up in wonder at the sight of the whistleblade, the chosen weapon of Her Majesty's Knights. He searched the crowd, but the worker who'd fired the Chime had disappeared, the spent weapon laying on the snow trampled ground. 

"A Chime!" The supervisor burbled, fat body trembling with fear. "How did they get their hands on a Chime!" 

"We need to go, Lord Beckett! Now!" Connor grabbed the man's sleeve, only to stop dead in his tracks. The man gawked, eyes wide and glassy, clutching at the lapel of his coat. A dark stain was forming, staining his clean white gloves crimson.

"No," Connor muttered in disbelief as the man dropped like a felled tree, the clear signs of a bullet hole coming out his back. The crowd's anger quickly devolved into panic as the realization dawned on them.

Lord Beckett had been shot.