I woke up to a gentle knocking on my door. Groggily, I rolled out of bed. My ribs ached and my dozens of cuts and abrasions stung terribly. When I opened the door, curate Ben stood waiting for me. He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped and stared at my chest instead. His eyes widened with surprise.

I looked down at my shirt and realized I was covered in dried blood. My pilfered jacket had caught some of the mess, but a huge stain covered the front of my chest. Looking back up at the boy I asked. “Did you need something Ben?”

“Ah, uh yes sir,” he said, unable to look away from the stain. “The Archbishop sent me to tell you that morning mass will begin at eight. There, ah, that is, the baths are of course open to you if you…” He trailed off helplessly.

Mass? I managed to not say out loud. I definitely chose the wrong class. Ben fidgeted nervously under my stare.

“Right. Where are the baths?” I said finally.

“I can show you the way sir. If you would just bring a fresh set of clothes, I can have your current ones sent to be cleaned as you bathe,” he said, relieved.

I walked back over to my trunk of possessions. At the bottom of my chest I found a spare shirt and pants that I had ignored previously. To get them I had to set aside my crossbow and chainmail. I had recovered them last night on the way back from the warehouse.

New clothes in hand, I followed Ben. As we walked I asked Ben about St. Paul’s Cathedral and was surprised by how many facilities it had. Kitchen, baths, sleeping quarters, praying spaces, cellars, a library; it was more like a monastery than just a church.

I took one of the private bathing rooms and Ben left with my soiled clothes. The hot water scoured my cuts and felt excellent on my sore muscles, but I didn’t take my time. I wasn’t really sure how long I had until mass, but I figured showing up late would be a bad idea. I cleaned myself thoroughly, got dressed, and left the bath feeling refreshed.

Ben led me to the well-lit chapel area I had started the game in. With my new understanding of the size of the building, I realized this area must be for more private masses. I would bet there was a huge area set aside for public mass.

I sat in one of the pews and about ten minutes later mass started. By the second song, I realized I was in for the long haul. It didn’t take long to completely zone out.

I had to meet up with Ajax and start exploring the Old Town. We didn’t have a whole lot to go on, but hopefully Slinger’s hideout would tell us more about why he was targeted. At the very least, going up against some zombies would let me try out my new proficiency.

Thinking about my new sword and related proficiency, I could remember dozens of cutting sequences. How to move the shamshir in continuous smooth motions to maximize efficiency. I could clearly visualize how to raise my separ over my head as I cut low. Separ?

My thoughts stumbled over the unfamiliar word. When I thought for a moment, I knew that separ meant my buckler, my shield. But I didn’t know why I knew that. With a start I realized what taking Advanced Proficiency: Shamshir really meant.

I had implanted memories of using a shamshir. How to properly cut, step, parry and block. The realization made my gut quiver. On one hand, the idea of my memories being manipulated was horrifying. Memory was a huge part of what made a person what they are. The idea that they can just be added or changed was incomprehensible.

On the other hand, it proved that they could. Axeton Studios could really alter people's memories. That meant they were probably telling the truth about sending us home. Why risk making people disappear when you could just send them home not knowing anything was ever wrong? When Axeton finished getting, whatever the hell they were after, they could just let us go with modified memories. As hopeful as that made me, a large part of me rankled at the idea of losing my memories.

I was interrupted from my thoughts as my name was mentioned.

“... For Inquisitor George Silver, may he have the vitality to continue his fight against God’s enemies, we pray to the Lord,” the Archbishop intoned.

“Lord hear our prayer,” the congregation, a mix of priests, curates, and lay people, chanted.

The Archbishop moved on with the ceremony, but I stopped paying attention. My eyes were drawn to my hands where, before my eyes, my scratches were healing. My breathing steadied as my ribs stopped hurting and the pain in my shoulder disappeared. Apparently prayer had some serious kick.

After the mass, the Archbishop came up to me. “Inquisitor,” he said with a smile. “I heard about your work with the police in taking down a den of sin. A fine job. It is good when Church and State can come together for the greater good.”

“Yeah,” I said, somewhat awkward. “Inspector Ajax has been a great help to my investigation.”

“Good, good,” The Archbishop said, nodding sagely. “The Crown has not always been the most cooperative in the past. Anyway, I trust the facilities are amenable to your needs?”

“Yes, the bath and healing were very welcome,” I said, reveling in how good the lack of pain felt.

The Archbishop nodded again. “The Church is very generous to its servants. It is important that we show our gratitude. Especially when receiving a windfall given to us by the grace of God,” he continued leadingly.

I winced as I realized what he was talking about. “And how much... gratitude… would be appropriate, in your estimation?”

“One tenth is fairly standard. Of course every person need only contribute what they can afford,” the Archbishop reassured.

And if I didn’t pay the tithe I bet I wouldn’t be in the morning prayers nearly as often. But all I said was, “Of course,” and hurried back to my room.