The rest of the night passed in a blur. The Faceless Man could remember just glimpses—Sly trying to hold him down, Boudica pleading for him to be calm, Martin’s bleeding eyes staring at him no matter where he turned, and finally, a doctor, injecting him with something so that finally he could sleep. It was late afternoon when the Faceless Man, now Martin, finally awoke.

  He stayed in bed for a moment, gradually feeling the return of sensation. In the afternoon light, he could take his first real look at the house Martin and Boudica shared. It was sparsely decorated. The furniture was old and beat up, bearing scratches from age and the occasional act of violence. A few framed pictures sat on the mantle. On the left was an amateur portrait of a woman who resembled Boudica. On the right was an enlistment portrait of a young Martin in uniform. In the center of those two was the couple’s prized possession. It was a framed drawing of the two of them. Martin had just become a lieutenant and they had been married by common law. The church wouldn’t officiate any marriages until after the birth of a child. Belief held that childbirth was a sign that the True God had truly blessed the union. This was a blessing that had never found its way to the couple. However, the artist had captured, or had been kind enough to invent, the love in their eyes. Their expressions seemed to hold the hope of the young couple. Boudica would have a child, in fact the artist had already posed her hand on her belly, and Martin would return from the colonies a hero. Of those dreams, only Martin came back, and hero was the last word anyone would use to describe him.

  “You’re awake,” a female voice said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Boudica,” Martin replied, sitting up slightly in bed. “Disappointed?” Boudica was sitting at the table, working on her knitting.

  “Only a little. You know doctors aren’t cheap, and since we called the doctor, we’ll need to have the disease cleaners come as well, but still, I suppose that’s cheaper than a funeral.”

  “Sorry to disappoint. I guess I’ll stick to the cheap whisky to save some money.”

  “I heard from Sly. You were drinking the cheap stuff to begin with. How about you stay off the sauce for a while instead?” Boudica laid down her knitting and stood up. “If you’re already thinking about your next drink, it must mean you’ve recovered. Should I send for the Nuisance Inspector now?”

  “How long have I been out?” Martin asked, sitting himself fully upright and squeezing his hand into a fist to test his muscles.

  “Two days.”

  Martin’s fist tightened and he let out a curse. “Two days?”

  “You were scheduled off Saturday, but there's no wages for Friday and Sunday now.”

  Martin was silent for a moment. Boudica went over to the sink and poured Martin a glass of water from the tap. It was room temperature, but thankfully on the cleaner side of city water. She carried it over to her husband, who drank it down eagerly. Martin passed the cup back to his wife and climbed slowly to his feet, moving like a man twice his age. Boudica returned the cup to the sink while Martin began to stretch.

  As a faceless man, his body had been stripped down to the basics and rebuilt to be in peak condition. Martin slowly stretched his body, feeling the muscles acclimate to their new shape. It seemed to him like the peak condition was maintained under the guise of Martin’s build, but having just crawled out of his sick bed in front of his very suspicious wife was hardly the place to test it out. Instead, Martin made a show of slowly limbering up with the kind of stretching he assumed any sailor in the Royal Navy would have drilled into them from their first day of training.

  “Don’t overdo it,” Boudica said, wary of another episode. “You don’t know how hard it was for Sly and I to restrain you when you started thrashing in your nightmares.”

  Martin let his body gently collapse onto the hardwood floor. He rested his head on his crossed arms and looked at Boudica.

  “Boudica,” he said, his tone serious. “I’m sorry. And thank you.”

  “Eh?” Boudica paused, surprised at Martin’s simple admission. “You’re welcome, love.”

  Martin pulled himself up and smelled his shirt, recoiling slightly at the smell. Boudica laughed.

  “You haven’t thanked me like that in a long time. Just when I thought you’d never change, you go and do a foolish thing like that.” Boudica made her way to the door and started putting on her shoes. “You go ahead and wash up. I’ll let the Nuisance Inspector know that you’re better. If we hurry, he might come in time to let you return to work tomorrow.”

  Martin paused for a moment as Boudica made it out the door. Even after the door closed and he could hear the lock click into place, he held still for another three deep breaths. Finally, he let out the final breath and his shoulders slumped in relief. Thankfully for Martin, it was a small house and the only door other than the front was the one leading to the bathroom. Before heading in, he took some time to rifle through every inch of the place—the cabinets, the closet, under the bed, and behind anything that he could move. Other than a coin that had rolled behind the bed, there was nothing unusual or out of place. He gave the room one more once over for anything he might have missed and then entered the bathroom.

  The Faceless Man quickly relieved himself and, with some difficulty, figured out how to operate the tub. He washed himself with the same methodicalness he had just searched the room with. It was strange thinking of this body as his own, and when he started to do so he felt a headache coming on.

  Jacques had mentioned that as part of his training. He needed to think of himself as Martin, or his mask would fall apart. At last satisfied he had located every scar and mole, he settled into the tub and closed his eyes to soak.

  Boudica seemed overly concerned about the money, but Martin knew she had good cause to be. They had a pretty good house here, in part purchased from money left by both of their parents, but it was tough to keep up with the payments on it. Martin was a stevedore, which granted him a higher daily salary and some protection, but he was still unpaid for days he didn’t work, and a prolonged illness could leave him dangerously short of much-needed funds. Boudica made some money as a washerwoman and by selling her knitting when she could, but they were reliant on his wages for the bulk of their expenses. Assuming the Nuisance Inspector could have a look at him today, he should be fine to return to work tomorrow. He wasn’t planning on continuing Martin’s alcoholism. In fact, he wasn’t sure if Martin’s tolerance for alcohol was part of the inherited traits from the ritual, but he somehow doubted it, given the unwillingness of the donation.

  Putting the money concern aside for the moment, he needed to think about how to present the changes to Martin’s personality. The illness was totally unplanned on his part, and Jacques hadn’t mentioned anything about the transformation other than the initial pain that he had experienced in the alleyway. What could have caused such a violent reaction to his assumption of Martin’s identity? Was it just his own subconscious trying to destroy himself, or was there something else at work?

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  He had somehow pulled through it, and there was nothing he could do about the why for now other than ask Jacques when he had a chance. He had a feeling that Martin’s bloody eyes would be seeing him in his dreams for the foreseeable future, but looking for a silver lining in the situation, he decided that such a brush with death should be a substantial enough excuse to give up drinking.

  Martin continued to soak in the tub, running through his explanations in his head and rehearsing what he would say to Boudica and Sly. He had listened to Martin as much as he could in the days leading up to his attack, but his color phrasing was still unnatural to him. He could only hope it became easier with practice. He was shaken from his thoughts with a sharp knocking at the door.

  “Hurry up, love. The inspector will be here shortly.”

  Martin hurried out of the bath and quickly threw on another pair of clothes. One of the few benefits Boudica enjoyed from her job was the chance to fit her own washing in once a week. The stained clothes would stay in a basket in the corner until the next opportunity.

  Soon, there was a knock at the door.

  “Department of Public Nuisance, Inspector Errington here to inspect Martin MacGregor.”

  Boudica opened the door for him. “Thank you for coming out so quickly.”

  He was dressed in a long trench coat, with the emblem of the Department of Public Nuisance woven into his sleeves. His hood was up, and he wore a mask over his face. The mask had a bulbous protrusion over the mouth, engraved with holy symbols of protection from the church. Under the protrusion was said to be a mixture of herbs and incense, formulated to ward off diseases. Once a figure of power and mystery, life in the modern city had exposed these nuisance inspectors to be what they truly were—overworked. Although they had originated centuries ago in the wake of a Cosmic borne plague, as time went on, confirmed cases of Cosmic contamination were always handled by the Church Inquisitors, leaving the nuisance department to deal with the mundane sicknesses that ravaged the overpopulated city.

  “Let’s begin, shall we? I’ve two more house calls to make tonight before I can lay down to rest. Where’s the recoveree?” He walked past Boudica into the house.

  “I’m here,” Martin said. He had taken a seat at the table with his hands folded in his lap.

  “Good. We’ll start the inspection. When did you wake up?”

  “Sometime this afternoon. Sorry, I didn’t think to go out to check the time.”

  “Don’t own a watch, eh?” The nuisance inspector put his bag on the table and pulled out a thick black book. “Did I hear you were a stevedore?”

  “That’s correct,” Martin replied.

  The inspector began flipping through pages, finally finding the one he was looking for. “You need a pretty wide range of tests to be cleared for work, so let’s get to it.” He began pulling out various devices, testing Martin methodically for one thing at a time. First, his temperature was taken with a glass thermometer filled with mercury. Next, the inspector checked his heart rate with a long wooden tube, slightly wider on one end than the other. Even his vision was tested by waving a small candle in front of his face.

  Just when Martin thought the inspector had run out of things to test, he took a golden egg-shaped device out of his bag. He placed it carefully on the table in front of him. It was carved with symbols of the church and the True Creator. Just to look upon it gave Martin an intense feeling of unease.

  “What is that?”

  “The last test. Standard issue from the Hold Church. It’s a device to check for Cosmic corruption. Just a formality, really.”

  “Is that really necessary?” Martin asked.

  “Yes.”

  Martin felt his heart catch in his chest. He was a walking source of Cosmic influence. Even that dagger alone within his chest should be enough to shatter the egg, let alone every fiber of his being having been remade by the Faceless God. He wondered if he should draw his dagger now and silence the inspector before he could raise the alarm.

  “Did you hear me?” the inspector said.

  “Sorry, I lost focus for a moment,” Martin replied. “What did you say?”

  Boudica was looking at him strangely from the counter where she was preparing dinner. Martin could almost imagine the inspector frowning under his mask.

  “Well, you have just recovered, I suppose.” The inspector admitted graciously. “I said put your hand on the device, and we’ll get this over with. I’ll write you a note clearing you to return to work.”

  Not looking at him any longer, he fished in his bag for a pad of official paper to pen Martin’s release with. Martin brought his left hand under the table, ready to draw the Faceless dagger if needed. With a shaking right hand, he brought his hand down on the device.

  It felt warm, surprisingly so given its golden appearance, and as Martin’s hand rested on it he could feel it continue to get warmer. The inspector found the pad he was looking for and drew it out, looking at Martin again. “Keep it there for just a moment, please.”

  “How do I know if it’s working?”

  “You’ll know,” was all the inspector said.

  As they waited, Martin could feel the device getting hotter. He could feel the underside of his hand slowly start to burn. Focusing on his breathing, he tried not to let anything show on his face as the inspector began to write his note. The temperature continued to increase. Martin’s breathing got shallower and shallower as he struggled not to release the device.

  “Just a few more seconds now,” the inspector said, putting the finishing touches on the note.

  Just when Martin thought he couldn’t hold out any longer, another voice spoke up.

  “Would you like a piece of bread inspector? I bought it from a nearby bakery this morning. It’s a bit stale as it’s yesterday’s loaf, but you can still taste a bit of the nuts they used.”

  “No,” the inspector said, turning to look at Boudica. “I’m not allowed to remove the mask while on the clock. Thank you, though.”

  While this distraction was going on, The Faceless Man withdrew his hand, pulling it quickly under the table. Glancing down, he could see the underside was charred and disfigured, showing his faceless appearance. His skin began to crawl as he felt his flesh scrawl back into the shape of Martin’s hand.

  The inspector glanced back at Martin.

  “All done? Feeling anything?”

  “Not a thing. Guess that means I’m not a monster.” Martin said.

  “At least not a cosmic one.” The nuisance inspector muttered. Tearing off the note he had just written, he handed it over to Martin, who reached out to grab it with his left hand.

  “Give this to your supervisor in the morning. If they have any questions, they can ask at the Nuisance Department headquarters. Now I must be off. Burn any clothes remaining from when you were ill, and the sheets too, if you can afford it.”

  With that, the inspector bid a quick farewell and left. Martin remained seated at the table as Boudica saw him to the door and locked it behind him. Returning to the table, Boudica suddenly reached for Martin’s right hand. Not expecting the contact, Martin jolted back, staring at Boudica in surprise.

  “Your hand, love,” she said, holding out her own hand palm up. “You know how suspicious I am of anything from that church.”

  Slowly, Martin brought his hand up and brought it down on Boudica’s outstretched one. She turned it over and carefully ran her fingers over Martin’s worn docker’s hands. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, she gave Martin one more look. “Come, supper’s about ready. Help me set the table.”

  The two ate in silence that night. Martin wondered if he should help clean up after, but deciding it would be too out of character, he retired to the sofa, staring into the fire and lost in his own thoughts. Boudica sat at the table after finishing the dishes, continuing her knitting from the afternoon. Not long after, the two got dressed and called it an early evening.

  Martin lay awake, his mind still racing. Every breath he took felt like a betrayal—every heartbeat a reminder of the life he had stolen. He wondered about the woman lying beside him, and about the love that had once filled this house, now suffocated by the weight of loss and regret.

  Boudica also lay awake beside him, her mind also troubled by the man who shared her bed. There was something different about him, a change she couldn’t quite place. Even just the earnestness of his thank you that afternoon seemed wrong to her. Was he just genuinely grateful for her care, or had whatever he had seen in that nightmare been enough to scare him into change, a change back from whatever it was he saw in the colonies that drove him down this path to begin with? Hours passed, the silence between them a tangible entity until at last, sleep claimed them both.