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The sound of gunfire above hadn’t ceased, and it just seemed to pound in Aleta’s ears. It was a sound she had become well acquainted with over the years. Yet at the same time, it never brought her good memories. Probably, because in the end she was the one that normally had to take care of those at the receiving end of the firearms. And it was never a pretty sight. There’s really is nothing quite like the sound of bullets entering flesh. Sometimes it’s a wet splattery noise, veins and arteries giving up their contents in a sudden unexpected rush. Sometimes, you don’t actually notice the moment of impact, as the fluid-on-hard-surface effect is what really snags your attention. Sometimes it’s more like popping a water balloon – one long spray and then … nothing. And then sometimes there’s a crunch when metal hits bone, like if you cut into fruit and accidentally stab the wooden chopping board, or break a plastic toy figurine in two over your leg like your childhood bully did when you were eight….
“Aleta!” a voice came and broke her from her thoughts. She turned her head to look over to see one of the gunners looking at her. There was a sense of panic in his eyes, and he looked like he was ready to piss his pants. There was blood on his shirt, but it wasn’t his from what Aleta could see. He had probably been topside when the beast first appeared. The blood splattered across his chest was probably from another man that ahd been crushed before his eyes. The poor soul probably high tailed it down below after that. “Should we starts Firing?!” he asked, sounding almost too eager. And he wasn’t the only one who looked like they were itching to set the Long Nine’s off. The entire crew on the gun deck seemed to be getting restless. Aleta really couldn’t blame them. A couple of the men looked severely shaken. They were raring to go and put this ordeal behind them.
“No, we have to wait for the captains signal” Aleta said, keeping her voice even and calm. It may seem crazy, but the boisterous woman could actually be serious when it was called for. The ship moaned all around them, but the men would just have to sit tight. The captain must have a reason for them to hold fire. Knowing the man, he probably already had a plan to get them out of this mess. So Aleta wasn;t going to just go blasting away at the creature all willy nilly. Her green eyes moved to look away from the men. Instead they went to look down the barrel of one of the Long nines. She a part of the creature in her sights. It’s body seem to shimmer as it swayed back and forth, the moonlight reflecting off of it’s scales. Suddenly the creature’s body lurched and it almost screamed in agony. One of the men was looking out of one of the portholes with an astonished look on his face. “It looks like the thing is being fricken torn apart!”
Aleta didn’t have to look to know that it must be Belo behind such an attack. No amount of rifle fire could do that to the creature with it’s thick armor of scales. Suddenly a cry rose above all the noise, giving them the signal that they were looking for. “MARK” Aleta immediately whirled upon the men who were already in position “FIRE” she yelled and the cannons let off a large explosion of smoke and fire. The blasts sounded like all of the thunder ever made roaring at once in one concealed room. A huge gust of smoke came out of the barrel the smell of gunpowder filled the air. The powerful blasts sent heavy shells deep into the body of the beast. Scales alone would not enough to stop the Long nines. The creature screeched as the cannons relentlessly barraged it’s body. “Don’t let up lads!” Aleta shouted over the thunderous sound of cannon fire. The beast shouldn’t be able to withstand much more. This was the perfect chance for Cain to get them the hell out of here!
A pitiful dinner had left him in a sour mood and the absence of a punching bag made the matters far worse. The first day on lay-low was always the worst, musing about the tasks to come, planning out a means to blend the seams as Liroy took up Jedt's mantle. The real nut buster was the fact that all the novelty items he'd packed for entertainment were typically meant for two participants. They'd run this rodeo long enough for Liroy to learn that solitary activities were of the highest priority, but his habits were stodgy old coots. The deck of cards would be quite droll without Colt's hand and the tin of pick-up sticks would sit and collect dust until his brother returned to lend a cheater's perspective.
Despite an earful of teasing, he had swallowed his pride and packed a pair of crudely carved knitting needles and a few balls of yarn, all various shades of cheaply-forged brown. He'd discarded his hat and gloves sometime after Colt had gussied up and sauntered his way into the dinner area, leaving a pouting Liroy to sit cross-legged on the bunk, hair bound loosely at his neck while stray bangs draped across his forehead. Deft hands worked the needles together as he alternated through a classic knit-pearl pattern. A pink tongue peeked out behind rust lips; a habit of concentration. Liroy's mound of yarn must have taken some kind of shape, but the form draping from his needles may as well have been a banana warmer considering the lack of detail.
Regardless of what they were, he'd completed several of them and was moderately proud if himself, though a soft smirk kept tweaking the corner of his lip upwards. Five of the things lay in a heap at his side, unaware of their own purpose. Only Liroy knew of their grand design. But his guilty pleasure suffered the most heinous interruption as the entire ship shuddered and the needles fell from his limp hands. His eyes widened out of curiosity at first until he felt a sickening lurch and chorus of screams. "What the croiky-fuck...?" He abandoned his arts and crafts station and sprung upright, boots finding unsure footing as the Ardent swayed. He braced himself at the small center table and he looked around the room frantically. Hiding seemed ridiculous. This felt like a catastrophe and he certainly didn't want to be cooped up in a trunk while the whole blasted ship took a nose dive for the waves below. Still, he couldn't bolt out of there for fear of exposing thing and causing more problems if they survived. He simply had to stay put and keep from wetting his undergarments.
This was a terrible time to be separated. The gut-wrenching boom sent another wave of fear through him and he seriously considered grabbing his favorite belongings and taking cover underneath the table like a good little ignorant schoolboy. Instead, he fastened the trunk shut, braced the door and stood awkwardly before the bed, itching for a proper job. He stumbled into his boots and groped for his hat; a reflex, of course. No bleedin' way he was meandering out there amongst the other damned fools. Another blast rocked him sideways as the long nines unloaded their rounds. He had no idea what sort of gruesome hell had befallen them, but he sure as fuck wasn't going to run and find out. All he could do was brace for impact and count down the seconds until Colt's return. What in the blazes was he even doing up there? Or had he even breached the top deck? Fighting all gallant-like alongside the crew? Welcome to the family, indeed.
Cannons heaved their leaded breaths, sonic pulses at first coercing flinches here and there as he aimed and fired, but time came when Colt filed the thundering away to something dismissible. Accuracy employed, each firing was right on target, little-only when in comparison to the body which they implanted themselves-shells burrowing and then bursting like infectious agents, only instead of blooming to a protracted decay, the dissolving of tissue was instantaneous and explosive. A whole round was unloaded, and there was a sloppy wedge of singed, hanging particles, a gate for all sanguine rivers to flow freely through. The thing twitched, not only from the carving in its side from his weapon, but the sum of the assault it initiated upon its decision to make the wrong ship its din-din. That wasn't to say every little flex did not add to the agonized moans of the wood as impulsive contractions resulted with every anguished twinge.
Artful flick of the weapon down, the removal of shells, celerity in the motions impressive from most any's perspective, but the halted with a new peal matchless by any other in the evening, thus far. Onslaught of the cannons, barreling spheres of terrific force pushing the air, slugging deep into salted flesh, tunnels just the size of that a small child might explore in curiosity. The first of the distractions was nothing to consider when the following act unfurled. Phantoms came to play, and Colt had never beheld any phenomenon as what was perceived through the splintering frame of his perch. No visible source or trajectory could be exacted, only the damage perceptible, and scales, meat and bone gyred and tore as though a drill, enormous as one might imagine a god to handle, had taken to it like an oak plank. Vision alone, that gruesome sight, was far from the only attribute of the discharge experience. All the cannons fired in unison might have well rivaled it, but this singular blast was enough to send shock through the gunner like the grace of a livewire, several feet covered in a backward hop away from the opening. Rattled, he could only maintain the functions of breathing, standing and staring (with the rare blinking) for several seconds. Processes halted in that pause, only capable of receiving input, though analysis would come at a far later time, once all panic had been filed away-neatly or otherwise.
Lid-peeled observation lasted only so long until another shift shook his stability along with his captivation, sense falling back into place as it dawned on him that there was nothing in his arsenal to compete with whatever unseen ordnance current spewed its eidolic flesh-churners. There was no way the thing was living though that, no possible chance. Scarce was there reason enough for him to stand and watch longer than he had, just the same. Really, what was it in his head that convinced him any sort of handgun was going to do any significant damage to the beast, anyway? Why had he stuck around to begin with? Perhaps for what was witnessed seconds prior, some glimpse of hope that they had even a sliver of a chance of survival. Whatever it may have been, something had given him the green to pull out, right then and there. He, for one, knew he preferred certain company over that of witless deckhands in his final moments over others.
Clumsy clatter of leather soles, for the instability of the grounds over his own nimble-if any were so bold to so name it-carriage, drummed glossed slabs, a few trips, slides into the wall and unwilling submissions to gravity later and he was at the door of his shared, now tossed chamber. Shaking, dire clench snared the knob, twisted and pushed.... To be met with results less than what he had hoped. Another, more forceful application in hopes of jarring the barrier loose, but it became apparent that some sort of blockade existed on the opposite side.
"Lirooooy... Liroy!" Colt hissed low and frantic, both hands now on the knob, shoulder leaning into the gate as soles slipped in vain efforts to break through. "Open the door, douchecanoe!" By that time, moderation had been abandoned, another being down on the level housing the roosts a rarity during the call to arms, never mind his discrediting the likelihood any would recall or trust their memories to wonder at any peculiar sayings uttered from his mouth. What in the world was his brother doing at a time like this, anyway? Was blocking off the door really going to save him when the whole ship was caving in? Not that Colt had much sense in his current actions, them being none that would contribute to anyone's preservation in the least.
The shaking knob rattled him good, despite Colt's familiar, irritated insistence. There was a lilt to his ton this time around, perhaps the rare essence of fear? Liroy unlatched the door and let it slide ajar just enough to fit a body through the gap. He grasped Colt's shoulder and dragged him in, surprised by his brother's audacity. If anyone caught him down here- well, considering the cataclysmic racket from above, he doubted the likelihood of it, but still, principles.
Once the Baregas were once again enclosed in a single space, he bolted the door once more and spun on a heel to Jedt of the hour. He fought the quaver threatening to penetrate his voice and found strength within anger instead and utilized its crutch. "You garlic twit! You wan' a get keel-hauled?" His eyes darted about until they settled on his hunter's cap, which he scooped up and slapped down on his head, skewing the angle as though he dressed in the dark.
"What in the salty hell is fuckin' around up there?" They ran a high-risk business here and Liroy thought the two had done an admirable job at shifting said risks to the more unassuming folk. Still, if the going got tough, the tough got going. If this was going to be a sinking endeavor, then they'd just have to bite the bitter bullet and bail on this mess. "Colt, you tell me right here, right now... If this bird's a failure pile in a sadness bowl, we abandon the lot, ye? I'm no' dyin' at sea, remember?"
My final resting place be in the arms of a billionaire hooker made of toffee...
Right now, he needed a plan... a directive; an excuse not to sit all by his lonesome in some damn bunk waiting for the angry gods of the sea to claim them, spiteful creatures that they be. He knew too little and possessed too few options to fix the problem currently tossing the Ardent about. This simply wouldn't do. Colt didn't quite resemble the same self-assured man that had left the room several hours ago to hob nob with the rest of the crew.
Something in there had been shaken, not stirred and he could think of few things that would instill such fear, save a few women they'd cross paths in back in the home country, but she, well she-regardless, the papers were in order and she'd not breached the required fifty yards in years. They also hadn't set foot back there in years, so they were part of that glorious solution.
But this was no raging lady of the evening; this was the real shit and he was on the wrong end of the ordeal. Liroy bucked up and straightened himself, steeling his gaze into the unknown. "What's the plan?"
Assurance that should any happen to be lacking in better judgment to place themselves anywhere near their questionable sanctuary were cut short, his brother pressing on with his command for focus, organization of thoughts and sentiments, all that lovely rubbish. Colt was not so much in need of correction, but he waited, impatient but quiet-though his mouth dropped on several occasions in an attempt to get a word in, to no avail. Yes, I'd love a good barnacle scrub, dearest brother. Brows, already having scored deep furrows dug deeper yet as he went on. Breath had been restored, or at least enough to form a sentence strung with few laborious breaths to slot between the words.
"Hell let bloody Leviathan out f'r a romp 'nd we're the pussycat its got its ever-lovin' heart on maulin'. No foolin'. Sloshin' in th' pisspot, Ruffy," Scruff-lined chin was rubbed, though the gloved hand's attention darted with vexed speed to right the angle of his hat after it had been plopped atop his crown. Paces traced uneven figures around the room. Even if they were to abandon ship, they were in the middle of the brilliant blue, and if what was wrapped around the ship was any hint as to what else lie in wait out there, distance wasn't their chief worry. Why were they in this again? "How much were we supposed t'be paid?" Hand elevated again to snatch his hat, fingers rustling his wavy mane and then the leather article was replaced. Pitiful, near fitful, though he may have appeared a bit more composed than he really was. The hat was taken off for the last time and drop it on the mattress, steps hastened by frustration and desperate for direction as they meandered to their trunk, opening it, and surveying their weaponry, clothing and limited snack supply, face etched in heartache. Nervous impulse hands reaching for holsters, the process of strapping them on commenced, automated as gears gyred at speeds far exceeding that of his movements. What to do, what to do, indeed. The fact of their death taunted right ahead, tapping with mirth to reclaim its stage at his every attempt to avert his gaze. Dead, dead, they were dead. Recycling of this fact got old quick, especially when his entire drive was to escape the reality of it. Sod off, if he could pull the trigger on his mental distractions, the bullets would be flying. Options, options...
Not half through the buckle of the first holster and, what would have been a painfully apparent solution gave him a solid slap across the face. Inspirational, really, as he slunk directly to his sibling, bringing one hand to either side of his face, earthen eyes alight with a whole spectrum of felicity. "Right-o. This rig's got to 'ave putter-puts, yeh? We hijack us one 'n' sail right on out while the snake cleans up 'ere." Yes, yes. This was good, because a raft over a plank of wood would really make a difference to a beast who sees something of considerable size floating at the surface which it could swallow whole if it so chose; never mind they weren't sailors and would likely drift until their death, if nothing worse.. Despite this, Colt's ambition would not diminish in the least. Anything that promised a prolonging of their time was worth it, from his perspective. Lips parted, baring a pearly set in a grin frenzied at the discovery of perhaps their only real option of escape, upper row of teeth biting down on his lower lip to add to the effect of enthrallment. Impulse pulled one hand away from the other's cheek a short distance, only to return with sharp, impish propulsion to the collision. "That's our best bet on bastard's luck, anywho!" A muted, though in all respects but volume reckless cackle was released, wholly resolved, dauntless.
It still craned overhead, its shadow cast clear, a healthy fear still present in the gunner's eyes, but, simultaneously, a vicious resilience, defiant to the execution of the sentence he wouldn't dare so much as whisper the likes of right then. No' dyin' at sea. That sounded entirely agreeable. Spinning away from the immediate contact with the other male the instant following his playful-though still forceful-swat, he bent to scoop his hat back up off the near-by mattress for the last time, neatly adjusted as he turned heel to head for their trunk. He wasn't about to leave the guns or food behind.
In the heat of battle, strange things happened. Alliances were broken, new ones forged, lives cut short. Moments spanned decades, decades spanned moments. It was this final anomaly which affected Cas until she found her captain. The chaos receded to a manageable, muted place, and she was ready to take orders. Having them made everything easier, made her sure and capable and strong, not confused and cold as she had been heaped in a pile near the pilot’s seat. So when Captain Fortinbras gave his orders, she could only smile gratefully.
“Need you and Vega on the aftcastle, love. Dot this bastard's I,” he told her, keeping his composure remarkably well in the wind and rain and chaos. She gave her odd grin, nodded, and turned towards the aftcastle.
Just as she did, there was a great blast behind her that pained her ears and shook her. The ship seemed steady enough and wasn’t falling apart, but before she ascended to the aftcastle Cas glanced behind her anyway, just to check. Sure enough, the beast had taken a massive blow and was being torn apart and unwound from the ship. Belo, of course—who as luck would have it was dangling above the deck and likely to receive a very serious injury in the next few seconds. Had Cas not been given her orders, she might have hesitated. Belo may have been Innate, and the elf had no problem putting a bullet in the back of her head, but even so, leaving her to become a pile of broken bones was cruel. But she had her orders and that made her sure.
She turned from Belo and dashed up the steps to the aftcastle, the great boom of cannons ringing in her ears. Boots thudded heavily on the wood and she stood at the edge of the smallish deck and surveyed the area. The minor deck was clear of blood and although wet and slippery, not as badly as the rest of the ship. The only real problem that lay before her was balance. The lower deck was more stable, easy to stand on, especially when firing. While the difference was not stark, it was there, and she’d have to focus on staying still while the ship rocked side to side. Not a difficult task for her kind but nevertheless, an added risk.
Cas jogged to the center of the deck, where she concluded it would be easiest to keep her balance. Spreading her legs, pointing the toes of her boots outwards and positioning the rifle carefully on her knee, she slipped one of Vega’s large bullets from the pouch at her side and, letting it rest between her teeth as she readied her gun, then slipped it into place and cocked the rifle. Ready. Vega was lifted from its seat on her thigh and readied for firing position. Cas peered through the firing sight, searching for that soft flesh where her bullet could pierce the creature’s head. The beast was screaming in fury, it’s flesh being ripped from it, massive cannonballs tearing through muscle and bone. She was about to add one more annoyance to its list.
She grinned when she found the eye and pulled the trigger before the opportunity could pass. The recoil was immediate, powerful, pushing her back a step and nearly sending her on her backside again. But the shot was true, and in another moment came the beast’s roar. She hadn’t killed it, no, that would have been impossible—but she’d just about blinded it and caused it a good amount of pain, or so she hoped. And by the sound coming from it, pissed it off something fierce. Cas grit her teeth, deciding the aftcastle was no longer a safe place to stand as it writhed in pain. She turned on her heels and ran down the steps and back to the lower deck, her legs carrying her faster than her body felt like it could keep up with, but she managed. At the base of the steps she stopped and slid, back to her Captain’s side with a wicked little grin on her lips and her lungs searching for breath. That had been fun.
The elf groaned, shifting, then stopped as pain throbbed through her body. She sucked in breath through her teeth and reached down, lids slowly parting, and felt herself. Still there. Strange. She was blanketed, and oddly comfortable and warm, something she had not expected. A red orange blur shocked her sight and focused it: a girl. Smiling at her.
“Wakey Wakey eggs and Bakey!” the girl said cheerily. Cas groaned. What had she done to deserve this? She muttered something about being in hell, her head wasn’t clear enough for her to really understand what she was saying. But the girl seemed to understand fine—though the insult, not so much. “Nope you’re still in the land of the living…you were knocking on deaths door for awhile though, but I took good care of you!” Cas winced. She would have preferred hell to this girl’s annoying voice and attitude.
Her gun. Where was her gun? It was about time someone got rid of the twit’s vocal cords. She grit her teeth, her vision shifting and stomach churning oddly, and groped around the side of her bed for the revolver she’d stolen. Her heart skipped a beat when her fingers met the cold, comforting metal. She smiled, a little lopsided, thanks to the drugs. She raised the firearm at what she hoped was the girl’s voice box. Hard to say, since there seemed to be twelve of her, and they were all moving too much. “Sit still,” she muttered.
“Hey, what are you—!” the girl exclaimed before Cas fired off the round. It missed, by a long ways, leaving a small hole in the window. The air in the room became colder and she could hear seagulls. Cas frowned slowly. Where was she, again? She shook her head slowly, head lolling a little as another wave of drugs pounded her head and made it hard to think. “Missed…” she mumbled, annoyed. “Jus’…sit still’n…le’me take care of…” she managed before drifting off to sleep again, hardly feeling the prick of a needle against the flesh of her arm.
Crazy things seemed to happen every day aboard the Ardent. Rem could write an entire book on his first voyage and make enough money to settle him down for a long time. He had seen so many odd things that at times he was sure he was dreaming. Plenty of moments he found himself flabbergasted. He could not count the amount of times he found his jaw hitting the ground. Every event seemed to be more outrageous then the next. This was one of those special moments. This one most certainly took the cake.
He had never actually seen a sea monster before today. Though he had studied plenty to know about them. They were the Terrors of the Sea, frightening to both man and beast. Of course it was hard to appreciate the sheer presence of such a creature. The tiny diagrams sketched in textbooks really did them no justice. What was even more impressive was the fact that the crew was actually succeeding in keeping it at bay.
The deafening cannons continued to roar. He was certain that they would have no effect, but he was wrong. They shot through the creature’s tough hide as if it were nothing at all. In the future he would have to pay more attention to the mechanics behind the weaponry.
Then there was the magic. The sight of it alone was impressive, but when it made its impact it took Rem’s breath away. How could a human muster that type of power? It was this sort of display that made him so interested in the Innate. Nobody could deny that she had a gift. If he actually survived this he promised himself that he would actually get to talking to her.
Somewhere between all the flying fireballs and the loud explosions he could here the crew yelling orders and plenty of profanity at each other. Men came running by in all sorts of directions. The chaos was somehow organized in a way. Whatever was going on seemed to be working. When one of the crewmembers nearly fell over him Rem figured that it was just best to sit back and let them take care of this mess. He stayed as far from trouble as was possible, but continued to watch with a mystified gaze as he hugged the box of chemicals. Anything he would do would just make this worse.
Amongst all the noise one single gunshot seemed to be distinguishable from the rest. It sounded familiar. He looked around to see the elf giving the beast a final farewell gift. The shot hit the beast right in the eye. Regardless of size an attack to the eye got to have hurt. The loud screech that emitted from the creature was more than enough proof. Rem was not one for hopeful thinking, but it looked as if they were actually going to make it. As he saw the happy elf almost skip away with delight he summed up his feelings with one single word.
"Wow."
For the first time in his life, Cain found himself wishing he had received more battle training during his stint in the military. The thought of wanting to be remotely like the she-devil his half-brother was left a bitter taste at the back of his throat: a mix of disappointment and uselessness. He fought with the controls to try and get the ship moving, to try and keep the poor Ardent under their control but with the curling tail and the thrashing beast, he couldn’t help but wonder if he was even doing anything. He was a pilot for cryssakes and it was hard to pilot if the craft couldn’t move.
When he heard Captain Fort calling his name, Cain stood at attention. “Cain, full bore. Slash and burn on my mark. Make it a good one. We’ve only got one shot at this!”
Cain saluted and glanced down at the controls in front of him. Slash and burn eh? He hadn’t done that in a long time and it had been downright psychotic then. No other pilot in the world would probably be willing to try a stunt like this and here he and the captain were giving it a name and making it an order. Thinking back to that time brought a grin to his face. How many times had he pushed the Ardent to it’s limits? Cain almost laughed. Those times were child’s play. If Aleta thought all his past maneuvers were bad, she’d turn to stone after this one. I wonder if the Ardent can even take a Slash and Burn a second time, Cain thought as he started setting things up. He leaned back and waited. Half this crew had no idea what this move meant and he would surely get the worst lashing from them to date for the crap he was about to pull. He wouldn’t even defend himself if they did. He’d just smile, maybe laugh, and leave it be. They’d be appreciating his expertise in their hearts even if they were adamant to deny it. Even Aleta would secretly be praising him; he could feel it.
And then the captain called his mark.
Let’s ditch this fish.
Cain cut off the engines. The sudden loss of the roaring against his ears made everything else seem silent. It was a strange feeling, knowing the ship was being held up by the beast’s own volition. He could hear his own heart beating between his ears. It seemed too slow for such an intense situation. Much too slow. Was this what people meant by time slowing down? If it was, he didn’t like it. It only unnerved him, like he wasn’t doing something he should be. Cain watched as Belo let loose on the beast. She so rarely used magic; it was still such a sight to watch. He almost got distracted by it and missed his other mark. If the blast of the cannons hadn’t been so loud, he probably would’ve slipped off into another daydream. That would’ve killed the whole crew.
Cain kicked on the engines and slammed on the throttle, opening up everything the machines had. He could feel them getting loose and he took the wheel. He used all the strength he could to make the tightest turn possible, forcing the Ardent to groan right and the engines to abuse the fish with they're exhaust. He could hear the beast screech at the barrage of burning chemicals and fuel, but he had to pay attention. The beast had taken to thrashing and he needed to keep from getting the deck slammed into the water by a stray tail or a flopping head. The decking beneath his feet was beginning to rattle dangerously as the engines strained themselves to maintain the heavy payload. Just a bit longer, hold out on me baby, he pleaded as he turned and dodged around the swishing tail. The ship circled back around towards the head as a result and more shots were fired at the fish. Was that Cas or Belo? He couldn’t tell without looking and he was not about to distract himself now. This was the real troubles of a pilot. Sometimes, the whole crew was in his hands whether they realized it or not. It was a heavy burden usually reserved to captains or other squad-commanders. Those assigned to be in charge of a rowdy lot. Cain was not employed to take care of everyone. He was employed to pilot. Saving everyone’s ass was an unwritten part of the contract. Fine print at most.
I need more pay…
Cain turned the ship one last time and flew away, gaining more altitude as he did. He probably should have waited to start a climb until the engines were down but he wanted to get out of harm’s way before they hit a repeat. People would just have to dig their nails in the deck and the engines would just have to hold out until he got a decent elevation and eased up. The rattling got worse and he was starting to shake himself as he held steady. Images of the Ardent stripping itself as he rose played across his mind. Aleta would kill him. If she didn’t, he would have to refrain from needing a doctor until spring. A loud cracking noise sounded from somewhere behind him and he winced.
Make that summer.
He eased the ship’s nose down and pulled back on the throttle. The roaring quieted and the shaking began to slow down to the usual shudder. His grip loosened on the wheel and he slumped over a bit. He breathed out in a long “woosh” and started plugging the current altitude and speed in to maintain it. Then he slumped over in his seat.
“There’s a reason I like my fish cooked,” he muttered to himself as he wiped his eyes. They burned and he couldn’t help but think his nose had fallen off at some point because he couldn’t feel half of his face. He ran a hand through his hair and down his face. Then, he raised it and gave a slight wave to say everything was good on his end. Other things were going to need a good check-up and possible work-over.
Then a smile crept onto his face. This ship was an angel with the way she handled.
“Aerodar’s at the helm! Everyone hold on to something!” Cas was lucky to hear the crewman’s shout, for it gave her the half a second needed to grip the Ardent’s railing and hold on for dear life. She’d barely had the chance to dash off the aftcastle before the ship moved with such incredible speeds that made the wind whip her hair behind her. Rain pelted her face, sliced against skin and she was sure that if she looked it would be bleeding. She could hear, feel rattling beneath her feet, and realized it was the ship with a sinking feeling.
You idiot, Cain, she thought, teeth grit in anger and heart pumping with fear. You’re going to tear the ship apart when the Stroud couldn’t! There was a great, nerve-racking crack: one of the ship’s masts had split. Dear gods, they were fucked. Cas closed her eyes, whispering something between a curse that Cain wash up on an island somewhere with his pretty face all rotted and smelling of fish, and a plea to the god she would have served that, wherever he was, he save her doomed ass. She’d prefer both, she added, but just one would be fine.
The rattling continued, but slowly the ship slowed and the rain became softer and gentler. She opened her eyes, slowly and carefully, lest the shit really be hitting the fan. If they were falling hundreds of feet to their death, she would have preferred not to see the view. But as luck would have it, the ship was still together beneath her feet and was maintaining a stable altitude.
Cas let out a breath of relief and looked to Captain Fort. “Remind me again,” said a little breathlessly, stretching her legs and arms slowly and wincing at the cold, “how much you pay me, exactly?”
She turned, setting Vega down carefully and respectfully, to see the moonlit beast far behind them in the distance. How they’d managed that feat, she’d have to ask Cain sometime. Though they’d probably lost half the crew in the process. She glanced back, wondering how Belo had fared, and was disappointed to see she’d managed to stay aboard. A shame. And had the little witch had the decency to hang on around the aftcastle, Cas would have been able to take the chance to put her out of her misery. She sighed and turned back to the ship’s front.
Cain was waving at the crew to signal…something. Didn’t much matter what. She raised her eyebrows at him. “Bastard”, she muttered with a slight grin. Somehow, they’d made it.
He didn't enjoy the face palming he was currently enduring, and while he once believed his brother may has well have hung the moon in the sky, there were times when logic faltered and the vision skewed, clouding their dreams and getting in the way of success. Yes, Liroy wanted very much to live and reap the benefits of a job well done... but that was part of the question that was about to dropped from the scheme. He stood there, lips puckered between rough palms, frowning. The sea devils were right terrifying and his undergarments dampened at the thought of a face to face encounter. But he backed out of his brother's grasp and clasped his hands to Colt's shoulders, giving the perturbed conman a stern shaking. "Lux! Luxy boy, c'mon! We can' just shimmy off without a piece of the pie? We can bail, yeh, but I wan't souvenirs." Silks, tools, food, brandy, good china, bad china, whatever. They could not walk away from this ruse empty handed. A thief's pride was a fragile trinket, easily swayed by the every-changing rules of the day. The Particle shift may be a booty worth dying for one day, then a pile of sailor's rubbish the next. At this present hour on this most auspicious of days, Liroy couldn't give a damn about the bloody rock.
A pitch in altitude and unsettling shift of their stance turned his digits to iron as he used his brother to reclaim his disturbed balance. Canines glistened as his lips furled, jaw clenched as his body stiffened against the jarring motions of the ship escaping the sea demon's hungry grip. Liroy held tight until he was quite sure that the hull would not break beneath them and spit them into the frigid depths. He didn't enjoy swimming all too much, especially not without his floaty. He'd taken a liking to the paddle they'd found back in the lower city and he rarely ventured into even the smallest puddles without it.
All kinds of fire and brimstone hailed beyond their walls and he could only imagine the vicious struggle man and beast were locked in. And as much as he prided himself on his imagination, this was a scenario best left for the storybooks he'd compose many years from now from the safety of a prepaid room on dry land. Much to his surprise, the chaos yielded after their tumultuous journey skyward. Auburn brows raised in cautious curiosity while his wide gaze shifted to Colt. "... I swear on Pap's belt, I though' we were just about to turn a course straight ta' hell. Where'd the bleedin' engines go?" Albeit, they were cruising sound and steady, but there was most definitely a memory of power loss tucked in there. That couldn't have been a bout of sick imagination.
"Y'think we might have crawled up the wrong pair o'trousers, 'ere?" The Baregas were crafty, conniving boys with a track record as long as spring pole's ribbon, but they tended to prey on a more conventional lot. While this promised a century's payout, there certainly were some tremendous odds against them. He stood there, cap jaunted to the right, hair sticking up in sprigs of auburn, eyes wide and fighting the onslaught of doubt. Think of the fortune, man... Think of the fame. Liar's fame, of course. It was an acquired taste and found only in the seedier inner circles, but it was quite respectable to those who you wanted the proper respect from. Quite complicated, actually, but all in all, good. "Seein' how it's day zero an' you came runnin' in screamin' for a bailout."
In the heat of combat, the crew of the Ardent proved their worth. It was as though the pieces slid into place, though outside of this element, they jarred against one another. Cannons blared, flesh flew from bone, and aim was never truer. They soared away from the ragged beast like a ferry of vengeance... or something equally poetic and lacking the melodrama that the imagery was conducting. Belo found that she was losing her appreciation for the maneuver's elegance as Cain steered them hard to port and her precarious grip slipped further. By now, she had come to terms with inevitable fall and was mentally preparing herself for impact, or rather, how to best avoid the most damage. The free hand flailed in vain, reaching for one last possible hold. But of course, there was nothing to grab, just like the other fifty times she'd tried. The momentum sent her boots to the mast and she pushed off, finding no purchase round the bulk of it.
Fuckin' a', I want off.
There was no 'off' switch, no emergency dismount to employ. Just one short drop and a quick stop. Luckily, she'd been placed in similar scenarios such as this before and no longer possessed the same level of blind panic that people usually displayed when approaching a sharp fall. The buntline was about to give and she was going to miss the net. There was another line below, but she'd have to actually keep it in sight if she actually planned on utilizing it to slow this dreadful business. Luckily, she had dressed down for dinner and lacked the bulk of her deck gear that would have made this all the more cumbersome. A jacket would have been somewhat welcome, considering the adrenaline of the battle was fading about as rapidly as the beast was sinking to the bottom of the sea. A bone chill really was the least of her worries.
Chemistry and endurance collided as her clammy hand finally lost grip, the friction of the detachment sending a red-hot pain through her palm before it was replaced with the cold slap of ocean air. "HEADS UP!" She bellowed as the wind rushed around her ears and she fell, remaining upright during the short descent. Yes, a broken leg would be a lovely grievance to add to her ever-growing list. Belo snatched the secondary line as it passed with her good arm. The combination of inertia and a high-speed fall made her arm feel as though it had just completed abandoned its socket. She couldn't tell for sure thanks to numbness that spread throughout immediately after the contact. Despite that set back, all seemed as though it should have come to a rightful, successful end, had that numbness not spread to her fingers and betray to grasp. Belo continued on her downward journey, though this portion only last a good five or six feet, give or take. Still, the impact with the deck knocked the breath from her lungs as she tumbled into the certainty of solid plank. She'd managed to ball up enough to make the fall survivable, but the shock that shot up her spine was enough to force her mouth open in a silent scream.
It was short lived and she was upright quickly, favoring the flesh arm while a few straggling crewman tentatively approached her, offering cautious inquiries as to her status. An unsure hand snaked out, but she waved it away and snarled. "Yeh, right on time... fuckin' brilliant. Where were you with the bow line? Snoggin' Biggs over there? Shit... " She'd reduced herself to a walking explosive for this crew; the least they could do was throw her a line when they saw her dangling like bait for a trout. Of course, there was the whole freak show element about her that had the men keeping their distance unless otherwise ordered. Belo wasn't about to march into the Captain's chambers and demand that a clause be added to her contract dictating the proper care and treatment of the resident Innate. If they wanted to avoid her like a pox, then damn fine. She wasn't going to tattle just so crewman number fifteen could throw her a line when he would have rather watched her drown with his mates.
Cowardice is such nasty flavor, she spat, and not out of distaste for the lingering tinge of copper.
Now, standing was an interesting process considering the numb arm now felt as though it had been set aflame, though she'd not summoned any such element to her side. She staggered forward, casting an incredulous look at the traitorous limb. While she'd never experienced quite the same pain before, her functioning knowledge of the human body and how... limbs worked, meant she could deduce one very likely option. Her arm was no longer a participating member of her body and was now about as useless as a limp prick. Another frustrated groan seeped through clenched teeth as she stormed below deck, brass digits gingerly cupping her shoulder while she shoved past retreating sailors to the bitter solace of her quarters, where she would lick her wounds and sulk in relative peace. Or at least until the damn doctor got wind of it and unleashed that voodoo upon her. There'd be healing when she was good and ready to come crawling back; tail rightfully between her legs. It would just... be a long and arduous process.
Having been accustomed to the soundtrack of the Ardent's anguish, it was the cease of the labor what drew attention above the continued cannons and struggles and away from the insistence of last-minute pilfering from his brother. Colt was not without his-be in entirely skewed and ever-fluctuating-sense of pride, but he long ago came to the understand that pride never did a deadman any service. That and, for all the greed bred in his being, no lit candle it held would last in the gusts of fright of this variety. The collapse of the frightful symphony was, by far, the heart-stopping, color-flushing stall that mounted every anxiety, as though a transition into that grim prediction which the confirmation of they now faced. Reality halted all together. Not even a short, low hiss of the simplest hex could be squeezed through gritted teeth as the torturous stall protracted. The gagging pulse of an organ elevated to the back of his mouth was all that registered at that point, clueless to what had been said to him a tick prior, digits likely bruising his shoulders, maintenance of his footing.
Jasper rings swelled, nearly swallowing pupils which shied frightfully at the explosive revival, all inlets closed off now unsealed for an alarming rush of delayed traffic. Acutely, oxygen was sucked in through clenched pearl rows, legs tensing and arms starting to flail out to aid in his struggle against physics that battled to displace him. Colt was not the greatest pillar, barely securing his ground through the pivot and ascension of the vessel. Below them, planks no longer quivered, and the vessel could be felt leveling out, though Liroy's words struck a stake of wariness in his brother's heart. For all that had already occurred, the gunner had half a mind to expect the mentioned location to greet them whenever they decided to open up their door next. He'd leave that jolly discovery for later, however.
Crawling up trousers, something singing rotten notes of uncertainty (as though he had been guiltless of sounding the same cant in the previous plummet of confidence), though it would be a few ticks before any reaction was processed. It was only then, when gears were in their proper alignment and turning smooth as possible after the thorough rattling that the slinger caught on to -what he was fairly certain to be-derisive curl to his brother's air. If it was less of an endeavor and wouldn't actually require his attendance at the goal location, the swarthy dog would have gladly dragged the mocker off to witness the constrictor (if it was still wrapped about, that was) and see how long his pants remained dry.
From any other, and if he was spared the excessive adrenaline coursing through his being, the implication would have slid by without much more than a crass reply, but the hype of rising from the trenches housing all his fears of death demanded a more potent reaction. Seize the moment, and what have you. "Soggy twinkie," Literally, perhaps, as the pair of small knobs on his opposite's chest hidden below the grey, ribbed tank were pinched and twisted in a malicious sort of play, swift and cruel. Immediately, he jumped back in anticipation for retaliation, a mean sort of grin and laugh emerging. "Think we'll sail home if we're spared any more beasties. Crew's a load o' 'em themselves, loony lot, but keep our hats down 'nd it'll be a cakewalk." In the back of his mind, their discretion was emphasized further than his speech implied. This crew, after all, were the ones who fended off that thing in the first place, but, as far as he figured, provided they both avoided anything that would subject them to their wrath and also made sure they were fully capable of outrunning the pack, they'd keep from sinking.
It was a symphony. The cannons roared their supersonic widow's song in the key of agony; the Innate's will surged over the deck like a tangible presence, prickling along the back of Fort's neck before smashing through scale and flesh like the fist of an angry god; and Cain executed a stunning Slash and Burn which had them peeling away from the arms of the fiend from the depths, leaving hellfire and ashes in their wake as they sailed on trailing a cloud of vapor to rival any comet. And to add insult to injury to injury, Cas leveled her clockwork rifle, Vega, and delivered their parting shot. From her smile, it had to be a good one.
Fort took hold of the gunwale, his gloved right hand gripping the sturdy soarwood even as his feet struggled to compensate for the harsh manuever that had seen them clear of their inevitable demise. The Ardent groaned, her hull protesting the harshness of the high-g manuever, and threatening to kill them all where the Stroud had failed.
"S'alright, m'dahl. Hold tight, now." Fort whispered his words of encouragement just as Cain jerked them back onto a level course. Fort watched the aeronaut slump in his seat and his lips split into a momentarily unguarded smile. "Not bad, Aerodar. Not bad at all. Steady as she goes."
Remind me again how much you pay me, exactly? Cas' breathless question filtered through the space between them and Fort loosed a rakish chuckle like sodden honey-comb, rich and thick with his own amusement. He shook his head as he turned on his heel. There were things to be seen to...that mast for instance. An ancillary tower, but a necessary one. They'd need all of their solar-vanes if they were going to make the necessary push to serve their current patron...or escape anything else that took a shine to ending their lives with decidedly less panache than the creature quickly falling away behind them.
Fortinbras Carlyle drew a deep breath and began to bark orders once more, directing his first downward toward the gunnery deck. "Make safe the Long Nines. Well shot, lads. Get the wounded to sickbay, and ease who you can. Belo..." As he delivered his orders in his "against-the-gale" voice, eyes the color of frost-rimed slate probed the teeming mass of crewmen for the face of his Innate. For a moment, he wondered if her display had sent her over the edge, tumbling into the hungry waters of the Vast Sea.
That would be his luck.
But that was quickly laid aside. HEADS UP! Belo made a pretty inverted swan-dive into the deckplates, grabbing a ratline as she fell. The jerk which went through her body made him wince, even before she slammed into the soarwood of the deck with a solid thud. For a moment, Fort was sure that he'd have to get the poor girl to Aleta's triage, and survive the fireworks that would inevitably ensue. But, before he could finish imagining the explosive confrontation that the two would have as soon as Belo was in a position to vent her ire, she was on her feet and spitting venom...at least displaying enough of her sharpened tongue to let him know that she was battered, but not yet broken.
Fort's smile returned, washing over his face like a wave over a half-submerged reef. "...thank you," he whispered softly, finishing his half-finished sentence.
Fort turned toward the remainder of the crew which stood milling about, collecting the dead and dying, whistling at the damage. Fort leveled an even gaze at them, once more raising his voice to be heard over the buzz of conversation. "The rest of you see about shoring us up and making us flightworthy enough to make the push to Fort Rock. Patch what you can, splint what you can, curse what you can't. When we make it, the first round's on me." Fort put some hearty weight into the last bit, eliciting a ragged cheer from the survivors as he turned for his quarters.
Da's bolter was still clenched in his left hand, a bit of cool familiar weight in a ready fist. With a motion that had become second nature, he slid the pistol into the holster on his right hip and clipped the safety strap. With his right hand, he pulled open the door which led into his quarters situated beneath the aftcastle.
All in all, it was a lovely little space, dominated by the heavy mahogany desk at its center, covered with maps anchored by open books. The chair behind it was a leather wingback, bolted into the floor. Fort crossed to the chair which often served as his bed and sat, heaving a weary sigh.
"A good day," he decided to himself. Sure, there was tension between the crew, a giant fish-monster had attacked them, his ship was brutalized, and many of his crew had been mauled. But they were still flying. A good day indeed.
The cannons had her ears ringing something terrible, but even with all the noise she could still hear the ghastly wailing of the dreadful beastie of the sea rising above the sound of gunfire. “Keep the rounds a’comin’ boys” Aleta bellowed over the roar of the Long nines as she packed gunpowder into one that needed to be reloaded. And the men, bless there grungy little souls, didn’t slow down one tiny bit. They had the other cannons reloaded and firing again in the blink of an eye. That damnable creature wasn’t given time to rest that was for certain. The stench of gunpowder and smoke would surely linger on her clothes long after all this fighting was done. But that was no matter though; it was better then smelling like rubbing alcohol all day after all. All of the sudden, something changed. Aleta stiffened a little when she realized what it was. The engines, they had stopped…
Aleta could hear shouting above her from the main deck. And she didn’t think they were yelling about the beast either. “Everyone better grab ahold of somethin’ sturdy!” Aleta quickly shouted to those within earshot on the gundeck. And thank god she got the words out when she did, cause nearly a second later the engines erupted back to life and everything seemed to be thrust backwards. She grappled for something to hold onto and thankfully caught the railing. The ship then took such a sharp turn to the right that almost sent Aleta hurtling over the railing that she was holding onto. I’m….gonna tear him limb from limb” she spoke through gritted teeth. Of course her voice was lost in the wind and it went unheard. The floor beneath them began to rattle and shake, and Aleta could have sworn she heard the cracking of wood all around her. Oh…surely Cain would be able to sense that she was going to kill him when this was all over….yes it would be a drawn out and painful death.
The shaking continued and Aleta had to hold on for dear life as the wind whipped violently through her hair. The rain made it difficult for her to open her eyes, and it was coming at her so fast that it felt like cold daggers hitting her skin. At this rate Cain was going to blow the goddamn engines sky high! Yep, Cain was going to die. She was going to stick straws into his eyes and suck out his corneas, then maybe remove his small intestine and sell it at the next port as a really ugly looking jump rope. Finally the pelting rain seemed to lighten up as the ship began to slow. Aleta peeled herself away from the railing and just sighed. A few of the men around her shouted obscenities that were probably meant for the Aeronaut at the helm. And she sympathized with them. but at least they were free of that fuckin’ oversized eel.
"Make safe the Long Nines. Well shot, lads. Get the wounded to sickbay, and ease who you can. Belo..."
Orders from above could be heard, so there was no time to dick around and plot ways to maim the pilot. “I trust you can all take care of this?” Aleta questioned the other gunners, motioning to the cannons. They all nodded, knowing that she had other places to be at the moment. So with the Long Nines in capable hands, Aleta returned top the main deck…where she could see the rest of the wounded being helped down below. For most the hard work was over, but for Aleta it was just beginning.The red head just walked across the deck with an earnest look upon her face. Her gait was swift and she didn’t stop to really tell anyone great job, or issue a death threat at the bonehead pilot. And within seconds she had once again disappeared below deck. If anyone needed her…they would know where to find her.
The elven woman suddenly moved to her arm to the side as if she was looking for something. The revolver that had been at her side when she first collapsed was sitting on the bedside table, an foolish place really. However Aleta didn’t really give it much thought. She just assumed that the woman was probably looking for a glass of water or something. The medication that she had been given tended to cause cottonmouth. Unfortunately she couldn’t give the woman what she wanted. The medication would cause her to upchuck anything that was put onto her stomach. So for now, all Aleta could do was knock her back out and continue giving her liquids through an IV. Her back was turned on the woman for only a couple of seconds as she prepared the injections.
But in the time that her back was turned the elf had managed to grasp her gun, and point it in the doctors direction. When Aleta faced her patient again, she found herself staring down the barrel of a gun…that was in the hands of a drugged up elf. This was definitely not something that she had dealt with before.. Hey, what are you—!” was all A;leta had managed to blurt out before the gun went off. “Hold Bejeezus!” she exclaimed as the bullet went way off it’s course and hit a window somewhere behind her. Aleta just looked at the woman in shock. She had never had anyone she had helped threaten her before...let alone actually try and kill her.
The woman’s eye’s were unfocused as she drawled one last thing. “Missed…” which was followed by some rather incoherent mumblings. Well Aleta wasn’t going to give her a second chance to fire off the damn gun. The red head was at the woman’s side in an instant, sticking a needle into her arm and sending her deep back into la la land. The elfs head hit the pillow and her eyes fluttered close. Her hand released it’s grip on the Revolver as she slipped back into unconsciousness and Aleta quickly grabbed it. There was no way in hell she was going to be letting her guard down around this woman again….
Things were steadily getting better and worse. The sharp movements of the vessel tossed him from side to side. If the fear of the sea monster was not still lingering Rem would have been getting sick. Right now all he could focus on was trying to wrap his mind around the events that had just taken place. It was amazing what the crew could do when they actually put forth the effort. It was a little tiny reminder of why he had chosen to fund this swash-buckling, drunken, rude, foul-mouthed crew. They were far perfect, but they managed to pull through basically anything.
A few of the crewmen shouted, "Brace Yourselves!" Before he has time to process the order the boat lunched forward. Rem tried to reach out to grab something, but the case in his hands restricted him from saving himself. It was either the box or him. Before the scientist had time to decide which was more precious his body slid about six feet across the deck before promptly slamming into one of the lifeboats. He tried to yell, but the air quickly escaped his lungs in a sharp gasp. A coughing fit soon followed as he tried to refill himself with oxygen. It was like he was a fish fresh out of water. The shock hurt more than the actual pain, but he was sure that he would be feeling something come tomorrow.
As he regained himself he noted the almost immediate calmness the ship seemed to take on. The danger was gone and they had actually managed to make it... somehow. With a bit of an effort he tried to stand up. His legs wobbled in protest, but he was able to stay standing. After a second he determined that walking might be possible. With almost a drunken style he maneuvered himself across the deck. One hand tucked the box of chemicals while the other was held out trying to keep balance.
He was somehow able to avoid crashing into anybody or anything. People were moving around everywhere. A few were securing the cannons. The battle was over so the weapons needed to be stored. Another group of men were busy assessing the damages. The ship had its shared of battle scars. When they docked the vessel would need to be repaired. Code for serious money out of his pocket. As he grumbled something about becoming broke before they even heard anything about the Particle Shift as several more men limped off past him towards the sickbay.
Rem quietly assessed the damages the men had. Several broken bones for sure, a few had punctures, and plenty of cuts and bruises. The medics would have their hands full. He was half tempted to help out. Medical treatment was not his specialty-most of his knowledge was in books, not in practice- but his knowledge would be better than most. It also would not hurt to try to offer a hand to those who just risked their lives for him. When he saw one particularly badly injured man being carried down that signed the deal. He sighed a bit as he sauntered off to the sickbay with his box of chemicals still in hand. Time to do my one act of kindness for the day...
On his way down he saw the eccentric redhead from earlier. He was quickly reminded that she was a doctor or nurse of some type. It was only natural for her to be heading to the sickbay. At first he was a bit hesitant. His earlier impressions were not that positive. It would be impossible to say unless he actually came out and said something. He jogged to catch up to her,"You need help?" It was more of a statement than a question. "I know a little bit about anatomy and first aid. I could lend a hand if you want."
Cain crossed his arms behind his head and settled into the pilot’s seat. He kicked his feet up onto the control panel, to the side of the wheel and avoiding the buttons keeping them at an easy pace. He glanced at his pocket watch and grumbled incoherent nonsense in his throat. The pilot shift was supposed to change in the hour. Another ninny would come up and claim Cain was petered out and incapable of flying. At the back of the boy’s mind, he’d really be saying Cain was incompetent when awake and he’d be damned if he let the moron fly while sleeping. Tough luck either way, Cain wasn’t moving. His ass was rooted to that chair until he felt the night pilots were smart enough to keep them out of harm’s way. Hell, he could fly better than they could even if he was sleeping. He’d done it before plenty of times. No one really noticed except maybe Fort who notices everything, and the other guys had never said anything after losing the argument with him. They wanted their pay whether they worked for it or not. Cain couldn’t give a rat’s ass about them. He’d keep this ship in the air if they couldn’t.
The other pilot came shuffling up. His eyes were already closed so he didn’t see the kid, but the few choice words he had and his ability to be too heavy for the scrawny thing to shove got his point across. He’d just be sleeping out here tonight.
Gawdamnit it’s cold.
The fire blazing in the hearthside made the dark wood of the room glow and the shadows cast by the tables and chairs of the tavern flicker. Cain watched the light reflecting in his mug, a stupid smile on his face. He’d already had a few too many and thoughts were getting fuzzy. The feeling was welcomed and he kept on drinking the night away. The two strangers that took the seats on either side of him went entirely unnoticed until one set their hand on his armrest. That was noticed. The hand was feminine with long red nails on each finger. Cain’s head tipped to the side and he looked up.
“How long have you been here, sailor?”
The broad had weird hair to say the least. It was like it couldn’t make up its mind with what color it wanted to be: brown or red. She had a strong jaw as well and it made her look almost…manly. It was probably because he was drunk off his ass. She probably looked half-decent if he were sober.
“All night. I wanted a decent beer.”
The woman set her hand on his arm and smiled at him, leaning forward in her seat. Cain glanced down and his stupid grin widened at the view. “Well that’s such a shame.”
“Such a shame.”
What the hell? Cain whirled around, spilling slightly to the side as he did, and looked at the person behind him. Then he looked at the woman in front of him. What the hell? The broads were the bloody f*cking same!
He leaned back in his chair, glancing back and forth between the two smiling woman. “The fu—” Cain started. He looked at the mug in his hand and dropped it. Something was wrong with this beer. There was no way he was seeing this right now. When the two women flanked him and began kissing his neck and face, he could feel stubble on their chins like from shaving. Cain leapt up out of his chair and backed away from them, wiping his face off with his sleeve. The women curled up against his chair and purred together, “Come back and enjoy the fire, Cain.”
“Like hell I am!”
He stalked over to the bar, slammed a poor amount of money on the counter, and pointed a finger at the tender. He turned around and looked at him, completely stoic. The crazy red hair didn’t match his demeanor but Cain was too drunk to care. “You should be shot,” he slurred before walking out. Once on the street, he leaned against the propped himself up on the brick walls along the street and stumbled along. He glanced up and saw a flash of white in the distance. “O shit, I think I died.”
Then the flash of white came barreling down the street towards him and slammed into him. He fell backwards, flailing and dizzy, and cracked his head on the stone ground. A low groan came out of him and he forced his eyes open. The sudden shock of red startled him. “I went to hell?”
Then the girl sat up and Cain screamed.
He leapt up and slammed his head against the steering wheel. A loud yelp resounded as he tried to resituate himself in a semi-decent stance. He rubbed the back of his head and hissed as many curses he knew in both Tyrsian and his native tongue. The knot on the back of his head was going to annoy him and would need to heal itself soon before he got ticked off at it.
Then the dream hit him and he blanched.
“Holy f*ck!” he shouted, clutching his head with both hands. “What the hell have I been thinking?!”
Her resolve withered away far faster than she could have anticipated as the shock of the fall faded and left her writhing against her door, barely upright as the muscles around the join screamed in protest at their new placement. The swelling and odd jutting of the limb cemented her fears of an anterior dislocation. Belo cursed herself loudly. She could classify the injury just fine, but damned if she knew how to fix it. She'd always thought herself to be a hardy woman, tough as nails and devourer of lesser men, but the excruciating pain had her eyes rolling backwards until she saw only the backsides of her eyelids. The irony of the matter was they despite the agony, she simply couldn't drift into the unconsciousness that she longed for. A tiny voice emerged from the back of her mind, chiding her for avoiding the doctor, but she bade it away. She was true proud a creature to have such regrets, but this a brand new kind of hell; one that had her chasing away panic as memories returned to the surface after years of dormant silence.
This was a treatable injury, yes... but could it compromise the arm? Her last arm? No, it was a baseless fear. You didn't amputate a limb simply because it went awry. They could be returned to their sockets. But what if? What if she was the bizarre case? What if she was the specimen of a fluke? A dislocation so bad that muscle and bone had been damaged beyond repair? No, this was panic speaking; memories of old manifesting as fear in the present.
The doubt lingered and she briefly entertained the idea of luring Aleta out with the promise of an orthopedic encounter. But her stubbornness was a fierce creature and the only way she'd march herself down there was if she'd achieved a state of complete drunken belligerence. Perhaps then she'd even be able to forget the ordeal by morning. She pushed off the door, forcing her eyes to focus as she surveyed the room. Belo stumbled over to the oaken cabinet, throwing the door open. She shoved through her belongings, casting garments and pitiable keepsakes aside until she unearthed her prize. The unopened bottle had been intended for the day her contract terminated, but the present circumstances warranted a much earlier christening. She unscrewed the cap and upturned the whiskey, glass be damned as she choked past the burn of it. She gasped between gulps, eagerly awaited the coming numbness. By the time she cast the bottle aside, only a few servings remained.
She'd tested her limits many a time, but tonight was the night to tempt fate. Desperation compelled her this time and that meant all typical precautions were cast to the winds. The liquor worked fast, a testament to its proof, and the throbbing in her shoulder seemed to easy. The panic subsided and the urge to rush herself into Aleta's arms faded with a false bravado. Really, she was feeling much better. In fact, her condition improved with every passing minute and additional helping of whiskey. As confidence returned, reasoning fled. They'd always warned her that judgment was the first to go and she'd never heeded them properly.
S'not so bad... she mused drunkenly, half-baked ideas swimming their way to the forefront. She'd heard of simple solutions to her predicament. It had to be popped back in, of course. It was her arm, her problem, so why did she have to whimper and whine for help? She didn't need to bloody doctor. This was simple logic, beginners anatomy. Something pops out, pop it right back in. Bite the bullet and get it done! Why hadn't she thought of that in the first place?
It could be quick, virtually painless as she was. A good, swift blow ought to put everything to right. Nothing to it. She set her bottle down on what she assumed was the table, but happened to be air, then stepped a face paces back as she faced the door. By now, her sense of coherent self-preservation had abandoned her to destruction and she could see no holes in her plan. Simply run, brace, and pop. All better. Just to be safe, she back up a bit more till her calves brushed the edge of her bunk, unsettling her balance as she wobbled sideways. Bad arm angled door-wise, she burst into a wild sprint, covering the distance between bed and threshold quickly, not that there was much ground to cover.
She leapt up with reckless abandon, colliding with her door with such force that the very latching tore through the wood of the frame and gave way outward into the hallway, despite the protests of its hinges. Her eyes shot wide open as the impossible pain pierce through the haze of inebriation and she landed on her stomach, head knocking against the planks as she came to rest. Finally, her eyes rolled up in her head, gaze shifting from wood grains to blackness as unconsciousness finally claimed her. She dreamed of shooting stars, kittens and moonshine atop a bed of doorknobs and nails, awaiting the incredulous stares of the early morning crew.
Had Cas been able to read the minds of her crewmates and comrades, she would have heard the expression “sneaky priss” applied to her. An apt description, it was. She had been trained since birth in the arts of silence, seduction, and subterfuge—though they’d never bothered, or even been able to teach her the arts of getting along with others, real courtship, and compassion. This was of course no surprise, as her culture had no need or want for these concepts. They operated as clockwork, all intent to serve their masters and never desiring competition. Neither did they compete over mates: though their masters did among themselves. The idea was foreign to them. The closest they knew was the way in which one draws in a victim with a kiss and a suggestion before slitting his throat. Compassion? They had no need of that, either. They were all equals and never in want of food or shelter, as they shared. So it was that Cas found herself so often confused, frightened, and angry at the humans’ strange customs.
And now? Today, she felt all three of these things. Courtship was a strange and alien concept to her: she had witnessed and watched unnoticed the strange smilings and laughing and touchings of the humans when they desired each other. That they had to find their mates, and that these relationships did not always work out—and that they made love, without love!—seemed to her all too impossible. How could they live like that?
But although she hated the thought of it, Cas found herself wanting to be a part of that imperfect, sad ritual of courtship. Every day the thought crossed her mind, but she shied away from it. What of her reputation? What of her respect for herself? And when the desire to try the idea out faded, she would find herself disgusted with her willingness to give into the human’s loose ways. Forgive me, she would ask the mate she had never met.
Yet now she was presented with an opportunity. Cain, that incompetent fuck of an aeronaut, had dozed off in the pilot’s seat again. Cas bit her lip, watching him snore and shift from a dark piece of the ship. She was…tempted. Very much so. She respected his skill, yes, but deplored—and envied—his lack of responsibility when it came to employing that skill. He was carefree, and happy for it, and she resented him for it. She grit her teeth, watching him shift and grumble in his sleep. She resented herself even more for stealing glances when he—even Fort, sometimes—stretched or turned his back.
These were not, of course, the thoughts going through her mind as she slipped away from the captain in the chaos and stood by the pilot’s deck, watching him. No, instead she had forgotten her disgust with human looseness, her privately declared desire to stay loyal to her god, she’d even forgotten the god himself. He was splayed out in such a lovely way, his clothing askew, his hair rumpled, his mouth hanging open. She let herself grin, wide, at his appearance. Such disregard for looks and dignity and responsibility, she found odd. And even, not that she would let anyone know it, funny. But love? Even love for one’s god and master and husband and friend and companion and soul mate? She frowned. She would never know that. So how harmful could pretending for just a moment be? And he deserved some sort of reward…didn’t he?
She’d made her way up the ladder step by step as she thought, quiet as she could in her heavy boots—surprisingly quiet, too, as the assistant pilot nearby hadn’t looked up. Or perhaps he didn’t care. But she had not awakened Cain, and so would save herself the embarrassment of his knowing who had—she frowned. What would she do once he woke? If he woke, that was, seeing as he seemed to fall asleep so easily, maybe he wouldn’t wake. Maybe he’d imagine her some tavern whore back home. Probably for the best.
Slowly, the elf leaned over his chair, before a sudden shout and jolt from him nearly made her piss herself with fright. “Holy fuck!” he yelped, grabbing his hands. “What the hell have I been thinking?!”
Her moment was about to slip away. With a sudden, sure movement, Cas yanked on the shirt beneath his vest and pulled it up, over his head, then eyes, blindfolding him. She would later thank the gods—that she’d just betrayed—for the natural speed that let her slip in front of Cain, grip the bastard by the ears and plant her lips against his before he’d so much as noticed he’d suddenly gone blind. It was a desperate, slightly awkward and very rushed kiss. She’d slanted her lips over his, slipping them just into the place her kind needed no introduction to. Eyes closed, heart pounding, she had to drag herself away from it. Gods, she hadn’t imagined it could really feel this good, her whole body humming happily at the touch. She hadn’t even noticed the hand that had slipped to his chest for a moment before gripping the vest tight. But finally her mind reminded her body that she had to go, now! She jerked away, drawing her revolver in one fluid, quick motion. In another, the butt of the revolver was slammed onto his head, the exact place she’d been taught to strike. Cain slumped in his seat, knocked out instantly and looking even more ridiculous than before.
“Hells—?!” Cas turned, heart pumping madly. Someone had seen! Oh gods oh gods oh gods oh gods—oh. Just a wimpy assistant pilot. She composed herself, mentally tearing away the panic that she knew had lit her face.
“You. Take over. Aerodar’s…indisposed,” she said softly, the hardness in her voice missing. She swallowed, and it returned. “And if you tell anyone what you saw here, I’ll castrate your sorry ass. Understood?” Not surprisingly, the kid nodded enthusiastically and took one of the other piloting seats. Good. Grateful beyond belief that the crew was busy patching itself up, Cas fled the pilot’s space and slipped below deck, dashing through the hallways and knocking a mechanic out of the way. Once back in the safety of her own room, the elf leaned against the door and slid down, shaking. What the hell had she been thinking? She’d already pissed off her kin enough, this was just adding insult to injury. What if someone’d seen her? She’d lose the fear she’d instilled into the crew.
But…she smiled a little giddily suddenly, touching her lips. “Pas mal pour un premier baiser,” she whispered. Then she noticed the dead bird on her bed, and shrieked.
Hair stood on end as he swatted at his brother's hands. Liroy gave Colt a sound shove as he smoothed out the now-sore nubs, a sour pout plastered to his face. He backed into the bunk and kicked his feet up, the victorious grin returning as he claimed the bed as his own. Nurplin' was serious business and Liroy would give no ground. Colt could sleep in a nest of his own clothes on the floor for all he cared.
"All right, nut monkey. We'll stay the course. But you can get all comfy-cozy on the floor there n'think about what you've done... Cryin' bout buggerin' out." After all, Jedt would be a much more pleasant person to deal with after a proper, comfortable night's sleep. His partner in crime would have all day to nap and blow snot bubbles. The simple pleasures were fleeting.
"So what did we do today, Lux? Code for, 'what muck-ups will I be fixin' tomorrow?' The transition needed be seamless. The more holes they left unfilled, the greater the risk of discovery. They'd had many years to perfect the guise and had yet to fail in the middle of a gig, but there'd been enough close calls in the past for them to have examples to learn from. Details mattered; jokes shared, rapports built, chit chat and idle questions.
A gap in their stories could always be blamed on Jedt's occasional memory lapses, but an excess of excuses were excellent fodder for hungry suspicions. The seafarers were a superstitious, distrustful bunch and no expense could be spared in order to maintain their good favor. After all, their were dreams to be upheld. This was just one more road hump on the road to a life in a floating mansion staffed entirely by candied prostitutes.
So the routine continued. Colt would fill him in on the details, suggest activities of the day and prepare him for a schedule as Jedt while Liroy sprawled across the sheets as he prepared for a guiltless slumber. But of course, his stomach grumbled just as he began to grow accustomed to the under-stuffed pillow. His face furrowed in a frown as slitted eyes shifted Colt-ward.
"M'still hungry. And Liroy's hunger was not to be trifled with. The festivities brought to them by the night's leviathan had interrupted their previous plans to hoard whatever dinner stuffs were left upon the plates. His stomach had long since forgotten the dried meat of the past hours and now lusted for something far more sustaining. Baked goods would suffice, though their luck combined with their current location would probably make it difficult to obtain food that fresh. Still, it was early and they'd only just left port. This was as good as their selection was going to get. That wasn't saying much.
So his gaze transformed into the water pleading baubles of a starved puppy, a quivering lower lip added for extra sympathetic value. The ploy rarely worked on Colt and typically earned him a sound thrashing, but he never grew tired of how poorly his brother reacted to such a weak face.
Cain woke with a pained groan. A hand went up to his forehead then started to slide back towards the large mound on his head. He could vaguely remember slamming his head into the steering wheel, but his head was too busy swimming between sleep and dizzy and it was hard to focus on the memory for too long. As his fingers prodded along his scalp, he settled on a bump and held it for a moment. . When he moved it more, the sudden feeling of another knot surprised him. He prodded at it with his fingers and winced in pain. Gawdamnit, that one hurt more. No wonder his head felt like it was splitting in three places. "It hurts like hell,” he muttered to himself.
“I would say so. You were clocked pretty damn hard.”
Just spectacular…the brat was still here. He’d probably stolen the side controls when Cain had conked out. Cheeky bastard. Cain turned his head and gave him a glare. It looked more as if he just closed his eyes since they had already been half-lidded. “What the hell you doin’ at my post, boy?” Cain growled. His hand continued to rub the back of his head
“I was told to take over.”
“By who?” The pain in his head was not helping his mood. He almost wanted that rush from the fight earlier back. It suppressed aches and made him feel better. Now he was just the cranky, old-timer bum he appeared to be. He probably looked worse
“By that crazy bi—” the co-pilot started to say before he stopped himself. Cain watched as he forced down a swallow and shuddered slightly. Was this kid afraid? What the hell for? He wasn’t going to kill the guy for taking over considering nothing seemed to have happened while he’d been out. Aleta must have put him up too it. She was the only crazy bitch Cain knew that had command over the other pilots. That is, assuming that was what the boy was going to say. He knew she frightened them into obeying her will and he was the only one with a real backbone on this ship. He just knew it.
That must have been it.
“You don’t have to be scared of Aleta,” Cain reassured. He leaned back in his chair and resumed a comfortable position. His head had taken to throbbing and it felt as if it was alternating between shrinking and swelling. A strange, uncomfortable feeling but easier to ignore. “She ain’t gonna kill you if you call her that.” He glanced over and the kid was snickering. Cain narrowed his eyes at him. “What?”
“You’ve got it all wrong. Aleta’s doing doctoring.” The boy folded his arm over the back of the seat and turned towards him. A devious smirk played on his features and unsettled Cain. Lower boys were not supposed to look at him like that. “You and that broad are a wild pair.” And then he laughed more. Cain stared at him for a moment, trying to think of who the kid was talking about. Cain wasn’t a pair with anyone, never had been for more than four hours. That wasn’t nearly long enough to consider him with anyone. So who was the kid talking about? Gears grinded against each other as he tried to think, and the only clear thought he could remember was the broad, or broads, in his dream. Was that what the kid was talking about? Had he heard Cain say something about it?
O shit.
"No me jodas," he whispered. Cain stood slowly and fisted the kid’s shirt collar. The boy paled immediately as his heels left the ground and his face was pulled into a very dark, very ashamed Cain. “Didn’t your ma teach you not to spy on others?” he said. His tone had dropped and his words were cold. It felt strange being this angry over something after so many years of basically retirement. He blamed his embarrassment. “What I do with my time and how I spend it is not to be shared. It is not to be seen. It is not to be known.” The boy stiffened further in his grasp. “If you so much as breathe a word about how I do things,”—Cain paused and sneered—“about how I do anything I will drop you off the back of this ship and make like you never existed.” The pilot nodded furiously and Cain dropped him. “Now get. I’m awake and I’ll be flying.”
He made no protest this time as he scurried off towards his quarters. Cain sank back into his seat and began switching the control back to his console. He checked the settings and snorted. The altitude and speed hadn’t been touched. Either the kid wasn’t as upset with his piloting as the others or he hadn’t been in control enough to change things. Didn’t matter now. Whoever he was, he’d hate his guts now.
“Stay outta my head,” he grumbled at no one in particular. He reached up to scratch at his chest and when he felt his skin instead of his shirt, he looked down. His shirt was gone. How had that happened?! He sat up and looked around his chair only to find it turned inside out and upside down behind him. He blinked a few times, unsure of how to take the situation. Then the cold hit him and he snatched it. He looked around and didn’t see anyone. In fact, the only person who’d been near him before had been the kid.
As he buttoned up his shirt and pulled his vest back on, Cain grumbled to himself about how the boy swung crooked and he’d have to avoid sleeping near him if he wanted to stay unmolested by men. As he resumed his attention on his work, Cain hoped to the Holy Mother of Apples and Coffee, the closest thing to a deity he worshipped, that the boy hadn’t gotten any weird touches in.
He was going to have more nightmares now. Cain could feel it.
Fortinbras Carlyle drew a slow, steadying breath through his nose and held it until he could hear the shuddering thunder of his heartbeat slow as the unspent adrenaline burned through his system. He let it out between his teeth as he brought the tumbler of whiskey to his lips.
Baurius 1144. Good year. Good product. Good people, those who sweat to grow the wheat and rye, tended it, cared for it; those who watched it malt, distilled it, barrelled it, and finally bottled the resulting liquid panacea and shipped it into the hands of men who needed it. Blessed be, by the Throne.
Fort set the glass down, the muffled clunk of glass against wood playing counterpoint to the tinkling of honest to god ice cubes. How he'd lived without the vacuum feed from the induction coils and the flash-frozen chunks of water which rimed it, he'd never know. But thank the powers that be, he'd never have to drink his liquor warm like a goddamn savage again. By all rights, he should be smiling.
Why wasn't he smiling?
Fort laid a hand on the familiar form of the bolter that was slowly becoming less and less "Da's" and more and more "Fort's." It was laid out on a grease-smeared swatch of tan oil-skin, the tools necessary to render proper service to the battle-worn Harlon Arms "Archangel" arrayed in tidy little lines beside it. With an affectionate caress which might be better lent to a pet...or a lover, Fort let his hand drift over the weapon until his hand found the beveled grip and lifted the heavy pistol. With a well-practiced motion, a pull and a wrench in equal proportion, he disengaged the slide at the back quarter of the weapon and laid it aside. Next, a depression of the catch which held the breech and cylinder together. With careful motions he pulled the spent casings of the heavy bolt rounds from the chambers and set them upright along the edge of his desk. When he'd cleared the last chamber, a quick flick of the wrist slid the eight-sided cylinder clear and Fort laid that beside the slide.
One of the things that had made Da swear by Harlon Bolters was the ease with which one stripped down. They were a breeze to clean...one of those things that forbore all excuses and demanded attention. With bolters, one had to be terribly careful. They slung a very heavy hypersonic bolt of magnesium-capped tungsten carbide downrange with enough kinetic energy to lift two full-grown men from their feet and set them very firmly on their asses ten feet downrange; enough thermal energy to slag solid steel. If something went wrong in their works, one would be lucky to survive the misfire with all of their bits intact. Which was why Da had gone for a model which prided itself on simplicity and ease of maintenance. Fort could appreciate that.
He saw to the breech and barrel first. With the a cleaning-rod and a swatch of gun-cotton, he scoured the rifled interior of the Harlon's barrel, lifting away the traces of burnt propellant and tungsten dust. The cotton only came out black once. A light day indeed. The cylinder got similar treatment, each chamber swabbed with meticulous care. The cylinder's exterior got a liberal coating in gun-oil, ensuring that it would rotate smoothly. The slide and exposed hammer assembly were inspected, grudgingly approved, and lubricated. Fort reassembled the weapon unhurriedly, taking time to dry-fire the weapon eight times at the bulkhead. Everything seemed to be in order.
Fort cycled the latch for the breech and cylinder and reloaded the weapon, sliding the finger-length bolts into the heavy pistol's chambers. With a flick of the wrist, the weapon snapped closed and the catches engaged. He slid the Archangel back into the holster at his right hip, snapping the safety strap closed and leaning back into his chair. He took up his whiskey once more.
Why the hell wasn't he smiling?
A contemplative silence held sway in his stateroom as he sipped and grappled with an ephemeral opponent. He'd never been one to scrutinize himself, his feelings. But something niggled at the back of his mind. They'd come through the day; they were still flying. They'd taken losses, certainly. But they'd fought clear. They'd always fought clear.
His gunnery crew had done good service, making the Long Nines sing like the choirs of archangels which knew only songs of vengeance. The Innate had funnelled enough magic through the aether to make demons quake. His femme fatale had placed her shots like a creature with the eyes of a hawk, the reflexes of a cat, and the calm of a freezing glacial tide. And the aeronaut...well, he'd damn near shaken them to pieces, but the gambit had paid off. All together a rousing display of daring heroics...
So what, by the Throne, had him so damnably grim? Shouldn't he be toasting their good fortune.
As Fort's glass became empty and his eyes heavy, the phantom of doubt clouded his mind, cutting through the pleasantly lurid amber whiskey burn. They were not out of the woods yet. Not by a long shot. The Stroud would not be their only obstacle. No. It was only an omen, a portent of what was to come. This was no milk-run, no day-trip for quick cash. He should have guessed that one by the sum that the young chemist, Rem, had agreed to pay to engage the Ardent's services. Far too high for something safe and sane.
Fort drifted into a fitful sort of half-sleep haunted by specters from his past and phantom-threats of the future. He had a bad feeling about this journey and where it might take them all next.
Fort Rock, Third Hour of the Eighth Day of Winter
It’s a familiar place: a little town resting on a rock in the middle of the ocean. No one knows how it was founded, or even how long it’s been here, but it’s served as a port for the less-than-legal travelers of the sea since the beginning of Bursian piracy. Exacting a small fee on all passersby, it features more taverns than homes, as well as repair yards and crew ready to be hired. The perfect stopping place for the Ardent and for more than one reason. No one's sure why, but the townsfolk here adore Captain Fort with a zealous passion. They even renamed their town after him and commissioned a statue after the ship's last departure. If there were any children here, they'd probably be named after him. It isn't certain if even Fort knows why they love him so, but jokes abound in explanation.
The clinic was probably overflowing with people by now. There were only so many people aboard the ship that had the knowledge to help her. And even still they didn’t have enough training to do everything that she did. So after a tragedy such as this, Aleta would be busy for hours on end. In fact…she probably wouldn’t get any sleep tonight. Damn, and she had been dreaming of her bed ever since she boarded the Ardent this morning. And then that bloody Stroude monster had to go and ruin EVERYTHING…it was just her luck. And after she was done tending to all the injured…THEN she was going to have to go and inspect the damage done to the ship. The monster had probably cracked a few planks, ruined the railing….easy things to fix. However Cain’s piloting on the other hand had probably created a whole slew of things for her and the rest of the mechanics to repair. At the rate things were going, she was going to end up dozing off while she was still standing. She could just see it now. She would be fixing the railing and then all of the sudden, her eyes would start to close. You know that feeling when your eyelids feel like they are being weighed down by a bunch of bricks? Well you can only fight it off for so long. And then….the next thing you know, she would be bending over to far, and then whoops. She falls over the side. Yep, what a way to die…
The sick bay was just a little ways up ahead. The hallway floor was already spotted with the blood of the passing injured men. She ahd seen a couple of men that had only some surperficial wounds. However she had also witnessed the crushed body of a man being rushed from the deck. He had probably gotten caught under the monsters flailing tail. There was really no tellinvg if the man would still be alive by the time she got to the clinic. Suddenly as she was walking Aleta heard a voice come from behind her "You need help?" it asked. The red head looked over her shoulder and saw none other then whiz kid staring up at her. She blinked a few times and in her moments of silence, the kid spoke up again. "I know a little bit about anatomy and first aid. I could lend a hand if you want." Well that was a bit of surprise. She knew he was smart…but she hadn’t expected him to know much about medical practices. I mean, Aleta still swore that the kid had to be like…fifteen or something.
“Ya ain’t squeamish are ya?” Aleta asked, looking down at the kid. He really wouldn’t be much use if he was tossin’ his cookies everytime he saw a gash. Aleta had seen some pretty horrific things during her years as doctor. Things that would probably send a grown battle worn man screaming from the room tearing out his eyes so he could forget what he had seen. Okay, maybe not that dramatic…but…basically she had dealt with a lot of gruesome things in her lifetime. “Cause laddie.. if ya are, I dun think that following me would be in yer best interest” She was still walking, and he was still following…he didn’t seem detoured by her warnings. Finally she reached the door to the clinic. Before she stepped inside she cast the boy a quick look…”Well….I’m hopin’ yer good with a needle and thread” she added with the very slightest of smiles. There would surely be plenty of men who needed a good stitching here and there. Aleta swung the door open, and the smell of blood and alcohol instantly assaulted her. However it was a pungent smell that she knew well, so it didn’t phase her much. Painful moans rose over the clamor of her busy assistants. Some of the men just had scratches…and were being babies. However there were others that were in dire need of immediate attention. “We’re going to be here fer awhile kid…”
She made a motion of her hand to follow her as she made her way to the room filled qith white cots. Nearly every single bed was filled. “Aleta! Aleta!” someone shouted once they probably spotted her red hair. Aleta found the source of the voice to be Tracy one of her medical assistants. He was a small jittery looking fellow, and he didn’t usually do well under pressure. Tracy was standing beside one of the beds, looking somewhat panicked. So Aleta made a bee line for him…and he immediately began babbling and pointing to the bed. “He was doing fine just a second ago…he only had some bruising an a couple of cuts!” geez….why was this guy working in the clinic again? Aleta just put a hand on the man’s shoulder “Tracy Calm down…just let me look” and with that she guided him off to the side and out of the way. Now that he was no longer blocking the bed, she could get a good look at the man laying in the bed. His breathing was to fast…Aleta quickly looked to Tracy who was just standing there wringing his hands together. “Was he complaining about any pains in either of his sides or chest?”
“I, Um…I don’t remember I wasn’t the first one to treat him”
Useless…..
Suddenly the man in the bed began to cough and Aleta noticed something more troubling. Upon closer inspection, she discovered that his trachea was beginning to deviate to the right. Aleta just grit her teeth… “His left lung is collapsing…” she said, her voice calm. “Tracy this man is going to need some drugs…” she said looking over at the small man. “…now” she urged and with that he scurried off. Aleta then looked at Rem “We are probably not going to have time to wait for the drugs to kick in fully….so your probably going to have to help hold him down…” She was going at have to cut open his chest, to release the air trapped inside that was keeping the mans lung from expanding. It defiantly wasn’t going to be a pleasant experience for the man. And after this, there were several more others she had to look at. She and Rem were going to be here for awhile. The sun was probably already getting ready to peek....Well at least by morning...everyone should be taken care of.
Rem was just sewing up the last of their ‘patients’ when the sun started to shine in his eyes. The bit of sunlight was so bright it nearly blinded him. Morning already? he mused. As he shut his eyes to block out the annoying solar energy he wondered just how long they had worked. It seemed it was only moments ago he was standing in the hallway with Aleta offering up what little skills he had…
.~*~.
Aleta had looked surprised. Then again, almost everybody looked surprised at one time or another when they stuck around him. He did not see what the big deal was. Whatever it was about him that made people raise an eyebrow towards him did not seemed to bug him very much. He was just himself, whatever that meant. "Ya ain't squeamish are ya? Cause laddie.. if ya are, I dun think that following me would be in yer best interest” A bit of relief swept over him when she did not automatically turn him away. He was so happy that he almost did not catch her question. It took him a moment to process it. Was he squeamish? No. He had seen enough experiments gone wrong to get sick at the sight of blood. Her question was an appropriate one, though. The girl would not want to have to clean up another unnecessary mess. The scientist simply stood his ground and continued to follow the redhead letting her assume whatever she wanted. He might not be the strongest person aboard, but he certainly would not back down from a challenge like this.
When it became apparent to her that he would not be swayed so easily she simply commented with a light smile, "Well….I’m hopin’ yer good with a needle and thread... We’re going to be here fer awhile kid…” She was not kidding. The damage taken on by the crew was a lot higher than he had originally anticipated. It was hard to believe that a few hours ago most of these men did not have a care in the world. Now most of them were busy trying to fight off the pain, some were fighting for their lives. He wondered morbidly if the small amount of pay received and promise of adventure was really worth it for them in the end. Well, there was no need to cloud the mind with such pointless concerns at this moment. There was plenty of time to ponder away after the crew got stitched up.
As he surveyed the men one of the other medics called out for the redhead, "Aleta! Aleta!" The boy was a bit taller than him, but still small compared to the beastly sized men on board. He was busy running his mouth off about something. Rem was able to pick up that the boy had obviously screwed up baldy and had absolutely no idea as to how to fix it. These types of people made for the worst doctors. How could somebody possibly hope to fix an artery or aligning a fractured bone when they were too nervous to even string together a complete sentence? Aleta was not like him at all. She was quick to jump in and get to work. In mere seconds she had already diagnosed the problem. It was not good. A collapsed lung was a tricky thing to fix. The surgery needed to be done extremely delicately, and in a world where brute hacking and sawing was considered to be 'delicate treatment' it was safe to say that most operations did not end successfully.
When Aleta called out to him it only took a moment to process the order. The drugs were not going to be able to spread fast enough to numb the pain let alone knock the man out. It was either numb the pain or save his life. The decision was obvious. As whatever-the-imbecile-assistant's name was ran off to find the serum he pushed himself forward to see how he could help. The sailor was obviously in pain. The hurt would trigger a natural self-preservation instinct in him. He would try to stop the pain wherever it was coming from even if that meant hurting the very people that were trying to save him. Even if it seemed proportionately impossible for his small body to do the job he would have to keep the guy down for everyones own good.
To start with he grabbed a towel and spoke to the man, "Open wide.". The sailor did not comply. Whether the man heard him or not was not clear. It could be that he was just in too much agony to actually control his muscular movement. Rem had to actually go in and open the man's mouth with what little strength he had. As soon as he was able to pry the man's jaws open he stuffed the balled up towel into his mouth. At least with the towel now in his mouth he could bite down on something without the risk of tearing his own tongue out. It would also muffle whatever screaming was soon to come. There was no need to spook the crew out in the middle of treatment. Skittish people made for the worst patients. With that done he promptly jumped onto the table and leaned all of his weight onto the nameless sailor's shoulder while avoiding the man's chest. His weight might not be enough to hold him down completely, but at least it held him steady. ”Hold on, shorty!” The redhead said as she began the procedure. The man released a muffled scream as the scalpel cut into his skin. There was no doubt that it hurt. His muscular body automatically began to protest. Somehow his's small frame was able to hold on long enough for the man to pass out from the pain. When the man became limp he looked up at Ateta, ”Actually… my name is Rem.” he breathed out with a tiny smile. Despite how serious the situation was he could not help, but find a bit of humor hidden deep below it all. After a shared smile and a brief pause the two quickly went back to work.
Aleta sped through the procedure with an expertise that could not be learned in any textbook. The man was cut open and repaired in a matter of minutes. She must have broken some sort of record timing. When the man was done they jumped to the next injured victim. There was little time to admire her handiwork. Whenever they finished something there was always something new to be done. For the next couple hours he did whatever Aleta asked. It was a tiring and gruesome job. Not even the toughest doctors signed up to face horror after horror, but here Aleta was zooming through each gruesome case as if they were mere child’s play. The scientist was glad to see that at least one of the medics had some smarts. He mentally took back calling her odd. If she was able to work like this on such quick notice then a tiny quirk here and there was more than acceptable.
.~*~.
A few hours and God only knew how many stitches later they were finally done. An exhausted Rem sighed as took a seat in one of the only empty seats in the ward. His body was tired and his crash into the lifeboat was finally starting to catch up to him. A tiny bead of sweat was even beginning to drip down the back of his neck. He put his hands over his head- which thankfully no longer had any obvious bumps showing- and sighed. ”So now what, doctor?” he asked with just the tiniest hint of playful sarcasm spread on top. ”We just finished so I would suspect that everybody else is just beginning to wake.”
Cain was in a good mood as the sun peeked over the edge of the water. The idea of the future destination and a short but particularly entertaining dream of Belo in ancient, Kerrian ceremonial garb and two real arms had lifted his spirits and erased the thought of the silly copilot from his mind. He nodded at the crew members that passed by assessing damage. One even stopped and after staring at him like he was nuts, nodded in return. Stupid man had to ruin things by speaking.
“I heard you got some action last night.”
Cain turned and looked at him, quirking an eyebrow and frowning. It was a statement, not a question. That meant he was either a dumbass or had solid reason-enough to believe what he was saying was true. This meant that kid had blabbed, probably bragging about what he managed to do to him while he’d been passed out. Cain would have to deck the kid later. “I was molested,” Cain answered dryly.
The inspector let his arm fall to his side and twirled the pencil he was holding over his knuckles. “That explains quite a bit. I didn’t think you were crazy enough to want to be tied up with your own clothing just for a kiss.”
This killed any response Cain may have had. It blind-sided him, slapped him upside the head, and laughed in his blank, dumbstruck face. The drowsy fog he’d been in the night before and the severe pain from being rapped on the head twice must have blocked out the memory, because he was remembering something distinctly now. Cain straightened up, scratched his chin, and stared down towards the right. “Holy shit.”
The man sighed and shook his head. “O come on. I knew you were a total ninny, but you didn’t even remember that? Where were you at the time?”
Unconscious, Cain thought but that wasn’t true. He could remember it had happened and he could remember the sharp clonk to his skull almost immediately after. The inspector took his leave after another snide comment and Cain turned back to the wheel. That had been on nasty chop he’d taken after the…what could he even call it? It wasn’t really an attack if he had gotten a kiss out of it. A damn interesting one if memory served him for once. There were so few girls on board and he was not going to admit to it being a man. Well shit, now I’m curious.
Dropping his post, Cain wandered off in search of any possibilities. He scratched at his scruffy chin and looked at each crew member that passed him, sizing them up and either shrugging or grimacing. It was quite possibly the first time he had ever focused on the crew since either he or they were hired and, to say the least, he was unimpressed. He was starting to get rather disappointed. It had to be someone half-way decent or else he wouldn’t feel the need to bother. Maybe his mind was just screwing with him and he was really recalling some dream he’d forgotten upon waking. Of course, the two knots on his head said otherwise. Cain fingered them and winced slightly at the soreness. Gawdamn head injuries. He was going to be rendered stupid one of these days.
That’s when he tripped. He stumbled forward and braced himself against the wall. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the ankle of the resident drunk Belo that had hooked his toes. Cain held up his hands in defense and waited, but she didn’t move. He knelt in front of her and looked. She was absolutely gone. The stench of alcohol was stronger than usual. If the strength of the smell was anything to go by, she had shotgunned some nice stuff. For a brief moment, Cain contemplated getting someone to bring her to the infirmary. It went away as the sight of her arm distracted him. She could probably hit things pretty hard with that thing.
…o damn.
It really was the only option close to being logical and acceptable. He really only knew three girls on this ship. Aleta, Cas, and Belo. Aleta would sooner gut him, transfer his organs, and fill him full of knickknacks before laying her lips anywhere near his. Cas was more fond of the Captain than him and made good on pumping his limbs full of metal. He and Belo crossed patience every so often but not enough to constitute full-blown hatred. The flaming ass must have been one of those occasional moments of childish rebuttal.
In his twisted mind it made sense so Cain took Belo’s chin in his hand and kissed her. He stayed gentle in fear of waking her and getting some other swear word burned onto his forehead. When he pulled back, Cain let her go, turned to the side, and frowned. That wasn’t it and it tasted funny. Not the way he’d imagined things to be, but she usually wasn’t piss-ass drunk on the hallway floor in his fantasies. He would really have to try when she was awake and not fighting. And not bashed. Standing, Cain brushed off his pants and looked down at her again. “Rain check,” he said before walking off towards his post. He licked his lips and frowned again. Good grief, whatever she had passed out on felt like it had made him buzzed.
On the way back out, he tapped a passing crew member. He'd recognized him as helping Aleta out in the infirmary from time to time and figured he'd be the best option for now. The boy was staring at him in shock. "Did you just--" he started to say when Cain jerked his thumb at Belo. "Help the poor girl out." The boy squinted, his eyebrows shot up, and he ran over. Cain turned and left as he pulled Belo up, supporting her on his shoulder, and moved off down the hall. "And yes, yes I did!" Cain called after him with a smirk.
ஆ
As the sun broke from the horizon and the silhouette of the islands came into view, Cain emerged and took a deep breath. He wandered back and actively took to the controls. The sound of the ship’s morning bells signaling the shift change for the lower crews was actually welcomed for once. Cain flexed his grip on the wheel and whistled an old Kerrian tavern tune. His adventure for the morning was over without incident and he was on the way to one of the most spectacular cities he’d even run across.
Cain loved Fort Rock. There really wasn’t any other way to describe the sheer pleasure he derived when he could dock the Ardent against the rocky cliffs. The area fascinated him, having lived on flat, green land the majority of his life. The stacking buildings and ancient, indestructible bridges that connected the pillars of rock, all of it amused him but that was not the reason he loved the coastal town so much. It wasn’t even for his usual reasons: booze, women, and the air. No. Cain loved Fort Rock because the people here were absolutely insane. The cheering and celebration that ensued at the Ardent’s arrival would make him laugh until it hurt. They were genuinely decent people and he was not, in any way, mocking them. Cain laughed at his own captain’s expense because he was the reason those people were nuts.
They absolutely worshipped Captain Fort.
As he slowed the speed of the Ardent and pulled closer towards the rocky pillars and the Ardent’s special dock, fireworks went up into the air and the faint sound of cheering and screaming could be heard even over the crashing ocean waves. The ship docked, it was tethered down, and Cain cut the engines. The roar of the crowd was deafening and the assortment of banners, streamers, and sparklers could only be described as blinding. A few people had even passed out.
“CAPTAIN FORT! WELCOME BACK, CAPTAIN FORT!”
Cain leaned up against the controls and laughed.
Life was good.
It wasn’t even the first day of the journey and already Cas’ mystery tormenter was on the job. She’d slid down the door, both thrilled and confused by her first kiss, only to have the strange memory marred by a bloodied lump of feather and bone. Her response, of course, had been to scream, an action which made her cringe internally at the weakness of it, but she couldn’t help herself. One, she loved birds, two, she didn’t like blood and organs all over her otherwise clean sheets. Three? She hated surprises. Hated them. They made her feel off-balance and no longer in control of herself.
Pulling herself up, the elf averted her eyes from the corpse and opened the door, feeling a bit sick. It must have been there for a while, it smelled awful. She leaned out the door and glanced around, finally spotting a pimply youth—none other than the sailor she’d threatened on the pilot’s deck. Cas grit her teeth and closed her eyes, letting out a breath and a little pride.
“Oi!” Not the language she liked to use, but the idiot probably wouldn’t understand anything more complicated than that. He looked up from the carving he was making, then shrunk back slightly, feeling threatened. She motioned with her finger that he come closer, and the terrified boy could only obey.
She stood and held the door open, a gesture he must have taken as a little too inviting as he perked up—even his ears, somehow. Humans were strange. “Not a chance,” she said, eyebrows raised, and let his ego deflate a little before pointing in. “I want that bird out. And bring me new sheets,” she added, frowning as he looked at her dumbly. “Git!” she finished, reaching for the revolver at her side. That got him moving. Damn, the little devil could run fast. He was so like the elven men, it made her a little uneasy. Too frightened, too small, to willing to obey. But then, was that how elven women looked like to men and gods? The thought made her frown, and she forced out a snarl at him as he dashed out of the room, bloodied sheets bundled around the dear thing. She sighed and moved towards the bed, letting the door close, and sat down to wait. About a minute later he’d returned, wobbling underneath a pile of sheets, blankets, and pillows.
Cas sighed. “I asked for sheets. And only sheets.” The boy ignored her, and she raised her eyebrows as he waddled over towards her and deposited the pile on the floor. “Thank you ever so much for dirtying my sheets.”
He gave her a sheepish grin, glanced at the door, then plopped himself on the bed with a wide smile as if they were some sort of…friends. Her lip curled. “So…” he began, in mock-casual speech, fiddling with a button on his shirt. As politely as Cas could manage—and admirably so—she cleared her throat. He didn’t get the picture, and continued. “So, you’n’Aero’, eh?”
The elf narrowed her eyes. If she had not been built by men whose preferences included weak, small women, she’d have tossed him out her window with that comment of his. “Out,” she coldly told him.
The frigidity of her voice gave the boy a chill, and quickly he scampered out of her room, leaving the door swinging open behind him. Cas sighed, glancing down at the pile of sheets, and figured she may as well busy herself replacing the bedding entirely. She wasn’t exactly skilled in “wifey-homey” skills as she referred to them in her head, and by the time she’d figured the damn things out, dawn was finished and the ship was slowing to a stop. She sighed and resisted the temptation to rest her head and mind in the disheveled sheets, but there were things found only in Fort Rock that a woman needed, and needed badly. Cas gulped down the desire for it and hurried to ready herself: Fort Rock was a crowded and dirty place, especially when the Ardent was around, so she’d have to lose the dress. Quickly she shed herself of the bulky clothing and squirmed on the bed as she tugged on more practical, form fitting pants and shirts. No place to hide her extra guns and daggers, but the Rock was mostly a safe place and Cas wasn’t too worried. She’d do fine letting them hang at her sides. Finally she ran a brush through hair that had been knotted in the storm and wind, and was off.
The routine was semi-regular. Most landings she wasn’t in a rush, or dressed so mundanely, but the last day’s troubles and triumphs had awakened womanly desires as old as time. Without so much as a word to the rest of the crew, even Fort, which was unusual, she waited at the edge of the ship. The moment they’d docked—she didn’t even wait for the boarding equipment to be readied—Cas simply stepped onto the railing, then leaped onto a clear space of the dock. In another moment she had disappeared into the crowd, slipping between couples and carts and fainting women. If it had been possible, she would have moved in a perfectly straight line towards the little establishment, but she was having to elbow and weave her way through the damn crowd.
Finally, with a sigh of relief, she found herself standing in front of the too-familiar building, and stepped in, not even needing to read the sign. Several minutes later, the small elf stepped out. Several sweets-filled bags hung at the crook of each elbow, and in her hands she clasped a paper-wrapped, sugar-crisped, chocolate-chipped cookie. A look of pure delight was on her face as she savored every bite, slowly licking crumbs off each of her fingers with painstaking care. She licked melted chocolate from her lips, sighing contentedly. They say chocolate makes you feel like you're in love, and Cas couldn't have wanted any other treat.
Fortinbras Carlyle awoke with a start, jolted from the mists of Morpheus by some half-remembered phantasm. Something ominous and formless. It danced at the edges of his perception, even as his eyes opened, glinting in the first rosy hues of dawn. Blue-grey, they swept through the room, probing the corners and identifying the room as his own. He'd fallen asleep in his chair again.
The bed situated in the corner of the room had hardly been slept in since he'd owned the Ardent. Soft sheets, clean pillows...no match for the well-padded leather and the view through the aft window.
One couldn't watch the world slip away or come into focus from his bed. Not like this.
As the sun rose in the east, its rays filtered through the double-paned one-way glass and shattered into a thousand golden hues, scattering across the room and throwing the entire scene into a buttery wash of light. The water, rippling a scant fifty feet below the ship's hull, lapped against granite cliffs. Fort closed his eyes momentarily, dazzled, squinting into the glare and uttering a soft oath under his breath. They'd arrived, it seemed. Fort Rock.
Fort's history with the place went back. Way back.
Fort rose, stretching languidly. His joints creaked and popped unhealthily as he spun them through their range of motion. Shoulders, elbows, wrists, knees, ankles, neck, and even the place where his ribs met his sternum crackled from a life already hard-lived. Bracing his hands against the surface of the carved mahogany desk, he applied gentle pressure until every digit cracked loudly. He heaved a sigh. The old axiom was true. It wasn't the years that slowly killed you. It was the mileage. And Fort had more of it than most. Too much for his twenty-nine years, certainly.
He shed his clothes, stepping out of his customary sailing gear and looking toward the bureau set beside the unruffled bed. Without hurry, he rifled through the drawers, selecting a pair of laced leather breeches, a white silken shirt (Bursian) which billowed at the sleeves, and a long leather riding coat of Tyrisian leather. He stepped into his boots and fastened their silver buckles. With something like reverence, he reached for the brown leather length of his swordbelt. The comfortable weight settled around his hips, and the brass buckle closed.
Fort crossed back toward the table and reached for the bolter which laid over the swatch of oilskin, newly oiled and gleaming. And loaded. His fingers closed around the familiar grip and he lifted it. With a satisfying hiss of leather on steel, it slid back into the confines of its holster.
Arrayed to meet his public, the clamour of which was already drifting through the soarwood which made up his walls, Fort stepped to the door and drew a deep breath. Fort'd never quite gotten used to the presence of mobs, one of the reasons he'd retreated to a life at sky-level. When they were chanting his name, it was even less bearable. To be honest, he was damned ill at ease. Still, with his steadying breath he stepped through the door and into the limelight.
The fireworks were a little over the top...
Fort's features set into a mask of insouciant mirth as he cast a wary eye over the crowd. Bending at the waist he dipped into a little half bow toward the assembly, following up with a little three-fingered wave. This was certainly madness. Never in his life had he ever done a damned thing that warranted attention such as this. Noblesse, he might've been able to lay claim to. Civility? Certainly. He'd never shot a man in the back. Never stolen, nor cheated. Never made a promise he did not do everything in his power to keep. But he certainly hadn't slain any goddamn dragons.
The whole thing made him feel a mite uncomfortable.
Still he put on a little show, walking across the decking, doing captain-ly things. He made a slow circuit of the deck, offering orders in a hushed voice and paying little more attention to the crowd than he could possibly get away with. There'd be time to deal with that later. He saw to the mooring, the fixing of the stays, and oversaw the last of the grunt-work before taking his place at the center of the deck.
"Tallow Vance, you've got command while I'm away. First watch, at your leisure. Let's have a look at this town. What say?" Fort put some hearty volume into the order, turning on his heel to bend his steps in the direction of gangplank which led to Fort Rock's quay.
The crowd, to its credit, did not clutch and grab at him as it usually did. The clamour died into a hushed chorus of his name as they parted before the captain of the Ardent, their living legend. He turned to take in faces and offer wry little nods to the familiar ones. There were a lot of familiar ones. There was Martha Hillard, her matron's face set into an expression of motherly pride. And there, Tristan Thatcher, a face-splitting grin plastered over his lips as he nodded his head in excitement. Good people, these. For the most part.
"Where's the Badger?" Fort raised his voice again, turning a slow circle. "The old coot still kicking?"
"Aye, Cap'n," a wizened old man in a linen jump-suit of olive-drab fabric hollered from the midst of the crowd. "I'll be the one burying you."
Fort's lips split into a roguish smile as he turned in the direction of the familiar voice. The crowd parted once more, circling around the two as they drew nearer and enfolded each other in a backslapping embrace. "I don't doubt it. How goes, old man?"
"Not so bad, little pirate." The sixty-year-old mechanic broke the embrace and too a step back, letting his eyes scour the young swashbuckler, ensuring that all of his pieces were indeed intact.
Fort's chuckle was slow and sharp. The nickname was an old one. Nothing new, and yet still rankling. "We came under some trouble, Badger. Fish decided we looked like dinner rather than the other way 'round. Snapped some spars and shook us up mighty. We effected some repairs, but we'd appreciate you and your boys having a look and doing what you can. Think we might reach an accord?" His eyebrow raised with the question.
"Ah, hell, Fort." The Badger's wizened face collapsed in on itself as though the question itself were absurd. Fort's Rock was a little port, but not without a few decent ship-mechanics and a dry dock with which they might work...and the Ardent was much like a holy site in most of their eyes. "You know we'd be happy to help. Stay a couple of days and we'll set you right."
Fort sucked a breath through his teeth and hooked his thumbs through his belt. "We're on a time-table, Badger. Got a job to do. Just set the spars and ice the plating. We'll make do until we get a breather, square?"
"Keep running her hard and she'll suck dirt 'ere long."
"Run too soft, and we'll be without coin to keep her sailing anyway. We've got a job. We're going to see it done."
Badger scratched at the side of his nose and shrugged his shoulders. At the end of the day, it was the Captain's call, and he wasn't about to argue with him. "We'll see it done, then. Glad to have you back." He reached out and gave Fort's shoulder an affectionate squeeze. "The usuals will want to be seeing you down at the Taphouse." No more words were bandied. Instead, Badger turned on his heel and whistled sharply. Seven brawny youths detatched from the crowd and began moving toward the Ardent.
Fort moved through the crowd with languid slowness, pausing to shake hands and nod deference to the fluttering eyed girls. Good natured reproof issued from the matrons...
He had business to attend to at the Taproom, but his feet moved him instead toward Rounce's shop. The squat little building was not much to look at from the outside, but the man who found his refuge there was a rare treasure. Fort opened the door and sketched a little bow. "Master Playfair?"
The thin lipped man behind the counter had a cast to his face which might've better befitted a preacher. He wore half-spectacles on the bridge of his hawk-nose and a measuring tape about his neck. "Fortinbras Carlyle." He pronounced the captain's full name with obvious relish.
Fort's lips drew back into a slow, spreading smile as he took his first unhurried steps into the tailor's shop. "Show me what's new."
The volatile mix of liquor and pain proved positively explosive as she relinquished control of her conscious mind to the merciless chaos of her dreams. Belo was not a slave to her subconscious and she rarely retained the erratic patterns danced in her mind while dusk dissolved to dawn. Some moments blurred together while split seconds of incomprehensible gibberish played out; lucid and disturbing.
Somewhere between Mada trying to cover her metal arm with flowers and Da stumbling through the door with a half-dead bear draped over his shoulders, she decided that it was time to return to the waking world. She bid farewell to the exaggerated forms of her dream parents and struggled to burn through the haze, though walls of fish and train tracks blocked her path. A mule brayed behind her and she spun to greet it... But as soon as her eyes focused on the animal, its skin began to melt and shift, bone withering beneath flesh as it rose to take the form of a man. Its features kept changing, like the pictures of a slot machine refusing to settle. It warped forward until she could feel the heat of its breath. The swirling gap that served as its mouth moved, but only a whinny spilled forth. Belo outstretched a hand and limply attempted to push its face away, but it grew closer until the unmistakable plushness of lips claimed her own. She could smell the damp comfort of freshly cut grass, but tasted the unmistakable taste of tobacco. It reverted back to its equine form as soon as their lips separated. It brayed and bickered before galloping into the wall and disappearing in a flurry of goose down, which forced her to sneeze.
The rapid expulsion of air through her mouth jerked her awake with a surprised yelp. The combination of reviving next to a strange boy and with an unpleasantly throbbing arm was a recipe for outbursts of the most acidic variety. "The fuck you doin'?" She rolled wide-wild eyes to the deckhand supporting her weight, who regarded her as one might a spitting cobra.
"I've orders to get you to triage, sir-miss... Ah, please... you're in a right state."
Belo opened her mouth, teeth bared as she prepared to verbally rip him a new one when the dizzying agony seared her nerves and slaughtered the words in her throat. She should have demanded the name of whoever had issues such an order. Belo had the authority to belay it, too, but her stubborn streak was rapidly coming to an end thanks to the persuasive power of pain. Her ingenuity had failed, judging by the still-jutting joint that soured her stomach. She'd run out of alternatives, but couldn't give it all away just yet. The shred of remaining pride stilled her tongue, giving her the tenacity to resist begging for help. The inevitable had occurred... and the sudden realization of what treatment awaited forced the blood to drain from her face.
"Boy... I'll buy you two pints o'whatever swill you want... if you'll take me to a doc in town. Don't give me to 'er..." She muttered in fear of the red-headed walls sprouting ears.
But the boy seemed set on his path, despite the obvious fear he had of the Innate. "Er... I have rounds, ma'am. No shore leave 'till high tide, m'afriad. You'll be all-" Belo cut off his half-hearted attempt to reassure her.
"Don't do it, boy..." Her breathing quickened as they approached the bustling sound of Aleta's ward. Judging by the new spring in her cabin boy's step, she was fairly certain he was ready to drop her like a bad habit and escape to the top deck and cling to the main sail until Belo was properly restrained. He hurried her through the doorway, shoving her into the frame and wrenching a loud cry from her lips, hailing her arrival. A few straggling crewman looked up from their gurneys, visible shaken by her appearance. She may as well have been draped in black and wielding a scythe; their eyes collectively widened to the size of dinner plates. The flaming head of hair stuck out like a sore thumb amidst the sea of sailing drab. Her present company offered no additional comfort... for Belo held no great love... or trust for the scientists.
"Miss Aleta! Ma'am, Cain said I ought'a bring her down here. Think her arm ain't right... Best o'luck!" And without so much as an exchanged pleasantry, the boy wriggled out from under Belo's metal arm and scampered out of the sick bay, leave Belo to stumble awkwardly into a nearby chair. With her good arm, she groped for the kid's shirt tail.
"You! I'll get you! Your arse is mine!" But the hand was out of sight and mind before she could finish the threat and issue the few choices in Cain's name. When the din of her own yelling died away, she slowly turned her head to view the war crowd of battered sailors.
Cain's name rang in her head, uncertainty twisting her brows downward. The scent of cigarette smoke lingered and a memory of stiff hair teased her, planting alien thoughts into a muddled brain. Her suspicions fizzled as the weight of her pain returned. Belo was losing her resolve and each passing second brought her closer and closer to the moment where she'd snap her head back and scream to the ceiling for someone to shove her arm back into its socket. But she wasn't quite there yet. The good doctor still loomed before her like a denizen of hell's smiling assassins... wielding rainbows and sunshine, taking no prisoners. She shrunk into her chair, willing herself to camouflage and meld into the wall.
Cas Seingalt had been so wrapped up in the pleasurably sweet chocolate cookies that she hadn’t noticed at first the little hand tugging at her shirt. She’d opened her mouth for a final bite of one of the larger pastries when she felt it, and she’d simply ignored it, figuring it had been nothing, as she finished the sweet thing off. But then she felt a tug again, harder this time. The elf frowned and looked down slightly, though she really didn’t need to move her head much. The kid wasn’t much smaller than her, probably ten or so. Or five. Really, she didn’t understand human life cycles at all. So confusing. Cas shook her head and waved him off with one bag-laden hand.
“Shoo, child,” she said, and dipped her small hand into one of the bags again.
But, alas, the child did not move. The elf’s fine brows knotted together in annoyance and confusion. Didn’t human children worship their elders, or something? Why the hell wasn’t he doing as she said? The kid was scruffy looking, barely clothed in rags that looked like they’d been patched together from…rags. Okay, so he was a beggar. Probably wanted a coin or something. Cas sighed and, half out of pity and half out of annoyance, dropped a coin into his outstretched hands. The kid looked at it and seemed unimpressed.
“Aw, c’mon,” she said, sighing and leaning her head back. Kids. They pissed her off. They looked strange, were loud, and had countless invisible rules attached that she didn’t understand at all. She shook her head and made another shooing motion, baring her teeth at the child. He didn’t seem afraid.
“Yer na’ scary’t all, mam. Look jus’ like me mam,” he said. Cas sniffed, insulted at his words. Or at least, she was pretty sure they were words. She rose her eyebrows at the kid’s horrible use of language. The hell was wrong with him? Fucking kids.
“The fuck do you want? Git,” she said, her voice harder this time. The urge to shoot the little runt in the foot rose, but Fort would not appreciate that. The boy licked his lips and looked at the cookie in her fingertips. Her eyes widened, then narrowed dangerously. “In your dreams, now—” she began, then sighed as the kid’s eyes started to water. A tiny, warbling wail came from the boy and salty tears ran down his face. Cas grit her teeth, wincing and holding her hands over her sensitive ears. “Fine! Fuck it, take the fucking cookie!” she shouted over his wailing, receiving a few glares and huffs from passersby. Cas shoved the pastry into his dirty hands and left before he could ask her any more favors.
She sped down the street, hopping on benches and flower pots to get around the crowd, the bags slapping her tights as she moved. She sighed in relief as she reached the edge of the crowd, the entrance to one of the Rock’s many less than upright streets. Basically, the rest of the town.
Cas glanced over her shoulder, just to be sure, and groaned when she saw the kid following her. Cursing Fort and his ridiculous order not to harm children, she hurried along towards one of the town’s many whorehouses. Narrowing her eyes at the scantily clad whore at the door, Cas pulled the door open and slipped inside—closely followed by the little beggar boy.
When she stepped in, Cas had to remind herself very clearly that she had business to conduct and to behave herself, no matter how disgusting humans and their looseness was. She strode towards the counter and dug into the bag at her waist, drawing out her coinpurse and emptying it into the large till. She glanced up, her eyes meeting the hostess’ just before the old woman flicked her gaze at the beggar boy, raising her eyebrows.
Cas snapped her fingers, annoyed, drawing the hostess’ gaze back to herself. Good. “Not your business. I have a job for you,” she began, her voice sharp and bordering on condescending. She’d need a good, long shower after this was through. Ignoring the boy tugging on her shirt, she leaned forward and told the woman of the job: She needed some whores, preferably male, to play a trick on a ‘friend’ of hers. He was small, young, she told them, looked like a kid and maybe was. Dark haired, wore a suit, probably looked clueless. Easy to find, probably hanging out around the Ardent. “Have some fun with him, give him a scare. Don’t care what you do. Drag the kid off to one of your houses and give him a show, make him think he’s being kidnapped by horny men, don’t care. But absolutely no sex with ‘im,” she added, wiggling her finger. Not that she really needed to, of course, no doubt these types wouldn’t so much as breathe someone else’s air without being paid. Still, the last thing she wanted to do was cause the very thing she abhorred. The deal was made, hands were shaken—extra long shower, she told herself—and Cas left the whorehouse with a wicked little grin befitting of her thoughts.
The grin, of course, flickered and then disappeared with only a few steps away from the red lit building. The kid was pulling on her shirt again, and Cas snapped at him, annoyed. She slapped away his hand, hard—well, as hard as an elf could—but it did little good and only earned her some raised eyebrows and heads shaken as passersby wondered what a nicely dressed and food-carrying woman was doing with her ‘son’ starved half to death and in rags. She was starting to wonder if it could get worse when the kid started chattering.
“My mam nev’r wore pants, tha, or hadda gun, or a sword, or funny lookin’ ears, or—” he started in that annoying child’s voice of his. Cas held her hands over her ears and groaned.
“Kid…just…shut up and bother someone else, alright?”
“But, ye look nice, mam,” he protested, wrapping his arms around her waist and looking up at her with eyes that anyone else would have found insufferably cute.
“I’m not your mam, get off me!” Cas growled and squirmed, trying to push him off. But alas, the kid had a pincer-like grip. Not only was it hurting her hips, no amount of pushing on the boy would get him off. Perhaps if she’d been human, but…she grit her teeth and kept pushing, but still no luck. She looked to several passersby for help, but they all either ignored her, snickered, or gave her strange looks.
“Canna have anoth’r cookie?” the kid piped up.
Cas was at her wit’s end. The child was walking a dangerous path, and the elf wasn’t sure how much longer her loyalty to Fort would hold. Fort! He’d help her. She bit her lip, trying to think of where he might be. Probably not with the Ardent, they’d definitely have gotten off by now, even being as slow as they were. Cas wiggled as she thought. She’d followed him a good many times after their docking, usually he went to see his old friend then head to some tailor he had a liking for. Relief flooded through her. She could see it, just up ahead.
The elf grit her teeth and summoned all of her little strength, pushing ahead as the child dragged his feet along with her, chattering about his mam the whole time. The crowd was thick, and Cas was impatient, so she put the butt of her revolver to good use in getting them out of her way. Finally she’d made it to the doors. With a great sigh of suffering and relief, the elf pushed them open and dragged herself just a little further to where Fort was thankfully standing. Gripping him by his too-fine shirt, Cas looked up at him and gave him a withering look—almost hateful, if she were capable of the emotion towards her Captain. It was his fault for giving her the order.
“Get it off of me or I swear I’ll do it with a bullet, Fort.”
Thankfully the boy obeyed everything that was asked of him. If Aleta ordered him to grab something, he scurried over to snatch whatever it was that she told him to grab. It was nice not to have to explain something for once. Normally Aleta had to take time to educate her assistants in what to do in times of emergency….Like this. Anyways, the man with the collapsed lung simply groaned and the red head just issued more orders. If they wasted any more time the man could potentially die. And while the jittery fool was measuring the amount of anesthesia, the tiny patron Rev..or whatever his name was had grabbed a rag and stuffed it into the patients mouth. That way he wouldn’t bite his own tongue off once she cut into his skin. After all….Surely it wasn’t going to be a pleasant experience. "Open wide." The boy said as he tried to stuff the rag into the sailor’s mouth. However the man just seemed to grit his teeth and mumble. Apparently trying his best to formulate a coherent sentence of some sort. However between clenched teeth it was difficult to understand. So it just seemed as though he was simply moaning in discomfort. However the young boy didn’t seem detoured by the mans unwillingness to comply…because he just pried the mans mouth open and stuffed the wad of cloth between his teeth as if it were routine. The rag was shoved into the man’s mouth, and all systems were go. Aleta was actually surprised by the boys’ effectiveness. Apparently he did have some knowledge in the medical field. Most of her helpers would have just looked at her with blank stares until she told them what to do. It was nice to finally have someone know what they were doing for a change.
After all... her assistants were not exactly what you could call cooperative in a dire situation. Basically they were just there for Aleta to direct when it came to a number of minor injuries. When it came to actual surgeries they were as about as useful as a pile of rice. Regrettably Aleta didn’t have sufficient time to train them properly. You see…. the Doctor before her had died before she had gotten a chance to become comfortable with all the teachings that he had bestowed upon her. It was an early time that even Aleta herself didn’t like to talk about….mainly because it was a time that she had lost a lot of patients. Even though she was a surgeon…she didn’t take death well. Every time someone died at her hands…she felt as though she had failed. And her attitude hadn’t changed since then. Only now…she was much more experienced then before. Yet…still… the people under her were novices. They took care of scrapes and bruises….however when it came to serious ailments and actual surgeries….they were utterly clueless. Mainly because…it took a long time to actually learn everything that Aleta had to teach. And her helpers were not exactly the best of students.
Anyways as her knife touched skin the sailor screamed and began to buck violently. Yet the small boy still managed to hold him in place….enough for Aleta to get a clean cut at least. The redhead sighed with relief as she finally began the procedure. And she only smiled at the boy when he reminded her of his name……Rem….that was the kids true name. He was grinning as he told her… and at that moment they seemed to have a mutual understanding. Which was…rare for Aleta aboard the Ardent. Sure Cain could pilot the Ardent out of any situation and still leave it airborne, and Cas could win a battle with a gunshot or two….without serious harm. However in Aleta’s mind…..none of them had to deal with what she had too. Seeing friends and colleagues at the brink of death….not knowing if she could save them or not...it was almost unbearable. Sure Aleta sometimes acted as though she couldn’t care less…but nothing could be further from the truth. Aleta would probably freak if even Cain was injured….believe it or not….
Aleta was always questioning her own abilities, no matter how skilled she really believed she was. Well…..Anyways Aleta whisked through the procedure with relative ease. The chest was opened and the pressure was relived. Within seconds the lung was re-inflated and functioning normally. Green eyes watched everything diligently as she sewed the man back up. Aleta was always careful…not wanting to miss a thing. She had learned a long time ago…that with medicine…a trivial mistake could cost a patient their life. So….although she had a lot on her plate…she always managed to be effective…yet still treat most patients with remarkable swiftness and tenderness. Even if she was moving quickly she always seemed to manage an impressive level of professionalism and comfort. Aleta could normally explain the patient their situation while at the same time keep them peaceful and relaxed.
For the next couple hours Aleta barely had time to take a breath. Even if Rem did whatever she asked it was still a tiring and gruesome job. After she was finished with one patient she was whisked away to another. There were broken bones, puncture wounds, and cracked skulls to mend. And Rem surprisingly followed her the entire time, doing everything she asked of him. And for that….she was grateful. When the work was finally over with, the boy just collapsed in to the nearest chair. ”So now what, doctor?” he asked with the barest of smirks. ”We just finished so I would suspect that everybody else is just beginning to wake.” Which was true The sun was beginning to rise…so by now people were probably just starting to stir. Aleta just fell into the chair beside the by and placed a hand on his head….
“You did good Short Stuff….” she said with a tired smile….before correcting herself of course. ”Er…I mean…Rem.” He had helped her quite a bit. So it would be rude to keep calling him Shorty right? Well Aleta thought so….
“Now……WE finally get to relax” She said with a happy sigh as her eyes began to close. However her rest wasn't destined to last long. Because before her eyelids even met, the door to the clinic bust open. Aleta had to stifle a groan as her tired eyes forced themselves open again. However they immediately refocused and settled upon one of her assistant who was toting Belo like a great sack of potatoes. The red head just rubbed her tired eyes and sighed “a girls work is never done I supposed….but you did good…so you can run ‘long now” She told the exhausted boy in the chair. There was no need for him to be exposed to a drunken innate who needed something fixed. It….was a bit more dangerous then an injured sailor afterall…..
Besides….Aleta could already here the sound of fireworks. They were already at Port Forts shores…or so she assumed. Well Rem could probably go out and have a good time. There was no reason for Aleta to keep him coped up here with her. A young lad like him should go out and experience the world for himself right!? “Go...!” She urged him before turning to look at the inebriated Belo and the unfortunate man that that was towing her along. Belo definitely didn’t seem happy to be in the clinic. The boy that had her arm wrapped around his shoulder was just grinning like a madman..,.which wasn’t typical of anyone who was dragging Belo to the infirmary. So Aleta couldn’t help but be curious.
“What’re you smiling ‘bout” she asked with a raised brow as she got to her feet. And the boys smile just grew wider. “ ‘Nothin…..just saw certain aeronaut smoochin a drunken lass….thas all…” he practically laughed. However Aleta just grimaced as she gave Belo a questionable look. Hopefully she was to drunk to comprehend what the boy had said. Cause if she had heard him…things were bound to get…well... explosive around here.
“Well I’m going to have to give her antibiotics then” The redhead joked
Ew…Cain touched those lip!? GROSSSSSS!!! Well for now Aleta was going to have to ignore the facts, because the innates arm was twisted in a peculiar way. “Set her in the chair” was all that Aleta had to say as she rose from her own seat. Her body was protesting the movement, but her mind was telling her to ignore everything. Her job came before her comfort. The boy let Belo’s body slump into the chair and Aleta just heaved a tired sighed….”I’m getting the drugs” she replied in a monotone voice as she looked over Belo's arm. She didn’t need the innate blowing anything up because something hurt! So Aleta disappeared for like two minutes and returned with a syringe. “You’re goin’ ta feel a prick” was all the warning that Aleta gave the drunkard before plunging the needle into the girls shoulder. She depressed the plunger and sent the contents of the syringe into the innate’s blood stream…effectively numbing her shoulder in matter of minutes. And before Belo could really react or mutter a drunken complaint Aleta had taken hold of her arm. “ Grit yet teeth” she said before giving her non metallic arm a good solid push and sliding it back into the woman’s shoulder socket.
It was simple really...There was a quick pop, and it was done. The only problem with a dislocated shoulder was that there were likely to be torn ligaments...which meant that it was likely that the shoulder would pop out of place again. Oh just Peachy...that meant that Aleta would probably be seeing more of Belo in the future.
It was about as exciting as getting a visit from Cas...or Cain.....
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