Chapter Text
The warm wind blows inexorably westward, gulls cry in the sky, the sea off the bow is an aquamarine invitation, and the Destiny’s Slave’s sails are billowing and full. Seawater sprays up onto a figurehead depicting a lithe feline, black as pitch. Crewmen scamper across the deck, voices locked in a call-and-response with orders barking down upon them from the quarterdeck. They race to re-configure the sails, aiming to catch even more wind. The woman behind the wheel is magenta-haired, immaculately bedecked in dark colours and white frills, including a long coat – likewise spared from wear or tear. The crew know her as Miss Kafka, and she is a harsh taskmaster. She is also the captain’s first mate.
Captain Samuels herself, however, leans upon the port railing, gazing down into the blue as it rushes by. It passes at pursuit speed. She pushes away from the edge, her boots thudding with a severe conviction as she ascends the aftercastle. A feathered plume of chartruese and saffron sprouts from atop a tricorne hat, swaying and flicking in the wind's rush. Beneath her modest, buttoned-up coat – sporting worn black, with a pale green trim – bandages peek out from her sleeves and collar. A fifth of her face is wrapped likewise, rendering a section of her jaw and cheek hidden. The loose ends of each bandage whip in eurus’ gale as she arrives by the wheel’s side.
“We’re making good time.” She says to her second.
Kafka spares her a glance and a smirk before raising her sights back towards their target. A clueless brig, cruising parallel to the deserted coastline. “Spotter says they haven’t noticed us yet. Sunrise glare is working on our side.” There’s a drawl there – one bestowed by confidence and a lax attitude. “It was good thinking, captain.”
“They’ll have other signs, soon. Let’s get the flag ready.”
The helmswoman nods, then addresses the crew with a hearty shout. “You heard her! Ease speed, ready the black!”
Samuels grins with pride as her crew – capable and reliable – swarm to their posts as if by nature. She gives Kafka an appreciative nod, and descends to the main deck. Sailors make way for her without question, even though she crosses the line of their path. Aboard the Slave, she commands respect absolute. Beneath topside, on the gundeck, the same is true. She traverses the stairway that leads her there, and a group of mean-looking fighters greet her.
“Mr. Blade, it’s almost time. You know what to do.”
Blade has a Xianzhou-style sword in one hand, sharpening it with the whetstone in the other with a practiced care, almost admiring it between strokes. He looks up, only one eye peering from beneath his dark hair, and he turns to the rest of the boarding crew. They’re similarly grim individuals, armed to the teeth – what few still have teeth after their myriad skirmishes – and clothed in simple attire, easy to maneuver in and already stained in past victories. Blade himself, however, is formal in his dress. It’s very fine, also of Xianzhou origin and make, but with cuts and torn threads all across. Beneath it, bandages similar to the captain’s own. However, unlike hers, Blade’s are not a symptom of mortal affliction.
"You all have done this before; this time is no different. Get on deck, be ready to board, and only fire at the captain’s word.” The man drones, sternly. He stands, and his cohort follow wordlessly as he journeys topside, weapon in hand and with a determined expression.
“That time already?” A smaller voice, closer to the captain’s own, drifts across the candle-lit gundeck, almost silent against the thudding of boots above. It comes from a small figure reclining across a stack of barrels, unfolded map parchment in her lap.
Samuels approaches, and the light reveals the silver hair and youthful features of their navigator. “Miss Wolf. Will you be joining us today?”
She snickers in the dark, folding her map up again and stuffing it into a tube at her hip. She looks like she might be better suited to sweeping chimneys than charting the seas, with her diminutive stature and threadbare attire. “Against small-fry merchants? Hard pass.” She reclines further, laying down fully, now. “Might catch some sleep. I think I’ve earned it after last night.”
Samuels laughs through her nose. “Of course. We wouldn’t have this prize without your diligent work.”
“Don’t forget it~!” Wolf teases, folding her hands across her stomach, settling in for rest.
The captain bids her farewell in respectful silence, and returns topside. Things have quieted down, by now. The boarding crew crouches low by the starboard edge, obscured by the hull’s lip. A few sailors are still hoisting the sails, making them catch less and less wind as they approach the target of their hunt. Kafka holds the Slave steady on an intercepting path. One crewmate holds the flag-rope, ready to announce their true colours. For now, they fly the flag of a foreign nation’s navy. Soon, it will be replaced by the black of a pirate, and the captain of the merchant brig will have to make a choice; fight a losing battle, surprised and outgunned, or surrender entirely.
Right now, it falls to Samuels. The sun is high enough to obscure their main mast, where the flag is situated, but as the Slave gets closer, she will have to call for the right moment to switch it with the banner of their true intent. Too soon, and the merchant vessel will flee, or fire canons. Too late, and the same might happen. It takes skill, timing, and knowledge of human nature to accurately decide when to raise the black flag, to make the victim aware and certain that there is no point in fleeing, and no salvation in retaliation. Her fingers drum against the pommel of the saber hanging by her left side – the right one goes unloved, for now. She squints as a congested silence falls upon her frigate, like the restless buzz in the air before a horrific squall. All eyes are locked on her, waiting for her order – the final word.
She pulls a spyglass from her belt, extends it, and then fixes a telescoped eye upon the deck of the merchant ship. Their own crew has slowed, noticing the oncoming frigate. The captain, easily identifiable amongst his crew on account of his tricorne hat and fine vestments, stares on through his own spyglass. Captain Samuels smiles, and flicks her hand upwards in a signal. Her crew raise the black flag. Through her spyglass, she sees the merchant captain’s face fall into despair, and the hand holding the telescope fall to his side.
That’s good, she thinks. Hurry up and raise your white. You’re outgunned.
She groans when the rival captain begins to yell at his crew, making swirling motions with his hands, and finally, pointing towards the Destiny’s Slave. The crew rush to the ship’s portside – towards her canons.
The Destiny’s Slave is a frigate – she sports twenty-eight eighteen-pound canons spread across each side of the ship, counting bow and stern chasers. Her crew is nimble, efficient, and unquestioning. Her captain is dreaded, and experienced in naval matters. The brig she hunts, however, is much smaller in scale. At most, it could carry eighteen guns, but that would leave it heavily laden. The rest of the space is reserved for crew. Samuels spies not nine, but three canons per side – this would usually mean that the prize is heavy, and well worth a fight. Knowing this, she locks eyes with Ms. Kafka, and draws her sword.
Kafka’s acknowledgement is instant. She smiles as she belts out the words. “To guns!”
The sound of the Slave cutting through water is drowned out by the frenzied stomping of feet, and those with the aptitude to use canons funnel themselves into the gundeck. The sails unfurl once more with the need for continued pursuit.
That’ll wake Miss Wolf for sure, the captain muses.
Blade’s boarding party are inflicted with a palpable eagerness. Some of them shuffle around, impatiently, while others draw pistols, ready to peek and fire once the Slave comes into skirmish distance. Blade himself lowers into a full sit, his back against the side, one leg arched over the other. Samuels takes note, and paces towards the gundeck’s passage.
Once there, she shouts to the gunners, “Chain shot in the bow chasers! Our boarders have some fight in them today!”, and a cheer goes up from Blade’s men.
The past few scores have been uneventful. Small mercantile prizes with few guards and captains who either knew the rules of the seas, or were too inexperienced to supply a proper fight. While these outcomes are ideal, they are often the exception to the rule – they happened because Samuels is a good captain. However, with long stretches of time comes the loss of efficiency. Persistence is key to keeping oneself at the apex, and Blade’s men hadn’t fought in some time. Nobody aboard could afford the raiders growing rusty. By using chain shot, they could disable the brig’s sails, and leave her crew to fend off the attack with sword and pistol. The smart ones would surrender.
The captain of the brig, however, is not a smart man. His ship is still straddling the shoreline, and his crew is still scrambling to fill their sails. Destiny’s Slave is approaching from their portside stern, with no way to fire back until she pulls up alongside them, and by then, boarding would already be underway. He doesn’t understand any of that, so he’s choosing to man his paltry guns instead, wasting time that could be spent hoisting a white flag.
Captain Samuels shakes her head in disappointment. She preferred not to resort to violence during these hunts; a glimpse of the black at just the right moment is usually all it requires to take a prize. These days, the biggest threat to her ship and crew was other pirates, having caught wind of a successful hunt, trying their hand at ‘reclaiming’ their cargo. None succeeded, and this battle would go the same.
The Slave is getting closer, and Kafka gently orients her so that the chaser canons are aligned. The sound of gunpowder and heavy steel chains thunders across the coast, echoing against the backdrop of cheers from the Slave’s crew. Twin steel balls connected by chains unfurl and spin rapidly towards the brig’s sails, and tear through the cloth with ease. They wrap around the main mast, and smash the midpoint of it to splinters. The mast snaps and teeters, then falls towards the sandy shore, severing once more as it obliquely meets the ground. That ship is going nowhere. Kafka, with a contented smile, steers into a parallel boarding position.
With no stern chasers, it’s impossible to stop them. The Slave slows alongside the brig, and her crew throws grapnels and ropes over, and begin to haul her closer. Blade’s party, at the same time, pull firearms and begin to unload shot upon those arrogant few who still fight against the tide. Planks are set, and the raiders shout battle cries as they follow Blade’s lead across and into the fray. If Silver Wolf wasn’t woken by the call to arms, she’s definitely awake now.
Captain Samuels climbs to Kafka’s side again, and watches the fight from there. It almost seems like a waste; Blade himself dispatches more than any of his own men. A shot whistles past the captain, and Kafka produces a pepperbox from her coat and fires it four times in the direction of the offender. A body tumbles into the sea.
“Thanks.” Samuels says. The shot did nothing to startle her.
Kafka stows her weapon again. “Always have your back.” She assures.
Blade has the enemy captain at swordpoint now, disarmed and helpless. His crew sees this, and gradually, the fighting ends in total surrender. All across the deck, the sailors who still breathe are cowering, their hands in the air and knees upon the floor. Blade glances up towards Captain Samuels, still grasping his victim by the collar. She shakes her head, and the swordsman drops him to the ground unceremoniously. In the aftermath of the battle, all is quiet save for the sound of pirates breathing hard from exertion, the sea lapping at the twin ships’ hulls, and the soft, salty breeze that blows across both decks. Captain Samuel’s footsteps thud through that gentle soundscape, along with Kafka’s. They have left the wheel behind, and are slowly making their way towards the starboard side of the Slave, which is still secured without relent to her victim’s portside.
“Remind me, Miss Kafka; what was this ship and its cargo?”
“The Iris. Spice and spirits, by my prodding.”
Samuels sighs. “Expensive goods. It’s too obvious, and too easy.”
Captain Samuels hauls herself up onto a boarding plank, and, without wavering, crosses the thin, churning gap of ocean between the two ships. She drops onto the Iris’ deck with a thump, and scans the scene. By now, the raiders are gathering what few survivors are left into the center of the deck, surrounding them with swords and pistols drawn. Most of them are shaking – all of them have blood on their clothes. Samuels turns her attention to the quarterdeck, where Blade still watches over the subdued captain with menace. Knowing Blade, it's probably not entirely intentional – he just has that kind of presence attached to him. Perhaps it's because of his curse.
The captain is a defeated mess, and he knows it. He frowns at his captor sourly, dissatisfied with the apparent outcome of their duel. His clothes are cut through in places, exposing raw wounds across his torso and legs, and his right hand is slick with his life’s blood. His sword lies far from his grasp, and the hilt is spattered just the same. That’s not all, though; the edge is coated in drawn blood as well. Blade’s acting like it didn’t happen, but during the course of combat, he suffered a strike. A consequence of letting skill fall into decline.
Samuels straightens her back, and stops before the captain of her freshest conquest. “Mister..?”
“Captain Hamilton. Of the Iris.” He spits in return.
“…Do you know who I am, Mister Hamilton?” She asks, untouched by the provocation. This isn’t the first sore loser she’s come face-to-face with, and by the Aeons, it won’t be the last.
“The Destiny’s Slave… you’re ‘Firefly’ Samuels.” Hamilton laughs bitterly. “The tales made you sound taller, but it seems you’re still just a girl.”
Blade brings a boot up and plants it down upon the man’s hand, who yelps as he is monotonously corrected. “Captain Samuels. Remember your manners.”
“Mister Blade, that’s enough.” Samuels places a firm hand upon the raider’s upper arm. “Thank you, but that’s enough. Take some men and check the hold, please.”
Blade nods emotionlessly at the order, and relinquishes the struggling captain’s hand back to him. He points and “you”s a few of his meaner party members, and with some liberal application of brute force, leads them in through a hatch downwards.
“It’s a fine ship.” Captain Samuels says. “Very fine. You should be proud to own it.”
“Save it.” Hamilton hisses.
“Quite strange, though… a brig carrying spice? A small warship with only six guns? And so close to shore?”
Hamilton’s spiteful face turns suspicious, worried.
“You weren’t expecting us,” She continues, “Or else you would be fully gunned.”
Blade’s voice rises from the hatch, and he pokes his head out to be heard. “Captain, she’s empty!”
“And you’re not a mercantile vessel.” Firefly crouches low to better meet Hamilton’s trembling gaze. “Mister Hamilton, I have been in the business of seafaring for a long time. Because of this, I know when word of a prize is too good to be true. I also know that the wind carries many words. On the Asdana sea, Mister Hamilton, I hear them all.”
“Wh-what…”
Samuels lowers her voice, allowing herself to press into an aura of peril. Hamilton is already afraid, but she will make him terrified. “I heard that someone had attacked the Express. I heard that an ill-gunned merchant ship had drawn their attention while they careened. I heard that the same ship had ordered more guns from Port Morning, but there’s no cost attached.” She’s matching his sight with an unblinking intensity. “Now, why would a trade-ship carry its own firepower, instead of a well-armed escort? Unless, of course, it was never meant to haul cargo, and never had.”
“Y-you don’t know what you’re talking about.” Hamilton, even in the face of the dread Captain Samuels, is defiant. For what? “We’ve already sold our goods.”
“Iris never had any goods, just orders. Orders to lure the Express, re-arm before they were seaworthy once more, and then ambush them when they came for an easy score.” Firefly stands once more, looking down her nose at this sniveling, scared captain. “Expensive, easy to move luxury goods? A target with few defenses? The Express would find it appetizing, certainly. But we are not the Express.” She turns from him, and waves for Blade and his men to board the Slave.
The next order she gives is to fire every canon on the starboard side.
***
Navigating the Dreamflux Reef is the sole responsibility of Silver Wolf. As a seasoned navigator, and an ever-willing challenger of her own limits, she takes the helm to pilot the Slave through the shoals. It’s like she’s done it a thousand times, and perhaps she has. Every time, Captain Samuels watches on in awe from the bow. Anyone would, should they know the lay of the reef – it’s near labyrinthian. All the better to deter the Penacony Navy. Dreamflux is an island situated upon the south Asdana sea, and surrounded by reefs and sandbars that make traversal a dangerous prospect indeed to the uninitiated or unfamiliar. It’s a haven to pirates, explorers of a certain stripe, and talented smugglers looking to move goods of the expensive variety, so you can imagine why the perilous terrain is a highly sought-after defense.
Silver Wolf stands atop a small crate, unflatteringly, to be able to see past the spokes of the wheel. Due to constant affirmation that she ‘works better without someone lurking over her shoulder’ the quarterdeck is empty of souls, save her. Below, in the doorway to the captain’s quarters, Kafka and Samuels are conversing in hushed, secretive tones.
“The crew can’t be happy that there wasn’t a prize.” Kafka mumbles, keeping a watchful eye upon the diligent sailors, obeying their navigator’s every word. “They definitely aren’t happy that you kept that truth from them until the end, there.”
“They wouldn’t have followed me for the sake of another crew’s ship.” The captain responds, exasperated. She’s had this conversation with Kafka before, albeit in the future tense. “Miss Kafka, please. The Express’ crew has been good to me. I wanted to return a favour. Now, I know we haven’t had a good hunt in a while, and I’ll take that criticism, but I’ve got nothing right now.”
Kafka pinches the bridge of her nose. “Firefly, we can’t run a crew on goodwill and dreams. These people need money to secure their loyalty, that’s how it’s always been.”
“Then find something, Kafka. Once we land, find something. Because I swear on Terminus, I haven’t been able to find any leads that don’t put us on the Peace Company’s radar, or the Penacony Navy’s kill list.” Firefly gesticulates helplessly. “Kafka, you have never let me down before. Some of our biggest scores were found by you.”
“Because, captain, the sources wanted a cut. A sizable one, I might add.”
“Then find another who’ll take a cut. Any haul is a good haul.”
Kafka sighs, frustrated. “…I suppose, if I tell the Express’ crew what we did today, I might be able to pry something from Himeko.” Shaking her head, she continues drearily. “You know how that’s going to look, for me, yes? ‘Miss Murata, we’ve done away with a threat to your crew’s wellbeing out of the goodness of our hearts! Now, if we could talk business…’”
“…It’ll sound pathetic.”
“It will sound absolutely pathetic,” Kafka emphasizes. “But… ugh. If there’s no other way.”
Firefly smiles appreciatively. “Thank you, Miss Kafka. You’re a credit to us.”
“Spare me the ‘team player’ speech, cap. Just…” The well-dressed woman looks like she’s about to say something more, something scathing, but instead, she just grumbles and turns on her heel.
As she walks away, Firefly sees Blade across the deck. They meet eyes, and the gravity of the situation is already known. While Firefly is their captain, and commands more respect, Blade is closer to them in all other matters. If there is discontent among them, Blade will know it – and he is giving her a look that confirms her suspicions. A few other eyes are beginning to witness their silent communion, and so Firefly opens the door to her quarters, and slinks inside.
She doffs her hat, and places it upon her desk, littered with small trinkets, unfurled maps, and hefty tomes filled to the brim with logistical information: scores, expenses, payrolls, and more. Her coat slides from her shoulders, exposing a loose linen shirt to the cabin’s warm air. She throws it atop her bunk with little care. There is a mirror next to where she sleeps, nailed into the wall. As she approaches it, the visage of a girl comes into view. Her eyes are sunset, and her exposed cheek is smeared with what is either black powder or dirt – the difference is indiscernible with only lantern light. A small gouge is set upon her upper lip, the least of her scars, and by her own reckoning, the most flattering. She does away with her shirt. Beneath it, bandages that cover a space from her cheek to her heart, including the shoulder. Her breath catches when she thinks of what lies underneath that layer. It doesn’t have a name - the only people who could give it one are long dead, but it remains. It’s the pain in the morning, the weakness in her body that can’t be restored, and the aching numbness at the end of each day. It fills her life with anguish, soreness, and the burning sensation of an alcohol cleansing. The colour of hell's own fire, or so she imagines. It’s a reward for service, and it’s killing her. Captain Samuels is no stranger to death – in some cases, she became it – but when the brutal arithmetic of mortality is applied to the self, the attitude towards it invariably changes. With every day that passes, every fight that she participates in, and every voyage out to sea, the sickness grows more dire. Finality comes closer, a grim sprint to the finish.
“I want to live.” She mumbles to the girl in the mirror.
She shakes her head when she remembers that there is a crew outside that shares this basest of aspirations. She’s failing them. Today was a personal triumph, not one that would fill their bellies. Funds from the last big score were running low; Kafka had been on her case about it for the past month, but opportunities were growing thinner with the arrival of the IPC – the Interoceanic Peace Company. A recent player in the Asdana game, seemingly set on making things difficult for both Penacony and her pirates alike. They were also very, very well armed, and extremely happy to sink any vessel that even looked vaguely like a pirate. Captain Samuels is not like most pirates, though. She has seen the people who follow her through tempests, naval battles, and strandings. They turned to her because they were deemed incompatible with how the world was ‘supposed to be’. Lately, she had been doing terribly in rewarding their faith. Suddenly, her affliction seemed minute. Like it was nothing. The crew is what mattered, their way of life. Their chosen path.
It takes a moment to dispel the guilt, but she manages it by reminding herself that it’s not all lost yet; Kafka’s endeavor should yield something of worth, and if it fails, Firefly could always try to plumb some work from that tavern owner in Dreamflux, Gallagher. Perhaps running cargo, instead of plundering it, but if it gets everyone paid, it would be worth it. However… there was always money to be made to the east, in the Memoria sea. The Memoria sea is a stretch of deep, uncharted ocean. It is like any other ocean in most regards – there is salt water, waves, and marine life. Land is few and far between, but it’s there. The difference lies in its peril. ‘Here be dragons’ is a common idiom to apply to unfamiliar waters, but in the case of the Memoria, it may very well be true. Tales of monsters and ghost fleets, unexplainable weather events, and almost supernatural occurrences spread across Asdana like wildfire, taking root from accounts of the expeditions that the mighty Luofu had undertaken. But Firefly is no Captain Jing Yuan, and certainly no monster hunter – not as she is. With the Destiny’s Slave, she would be no match for those creatures. Perhaps with her old ship… but that was a weapon long sunken.
Firefly hears the scraping of chains outside, and it snaps her from a spiral she had long invested herself in avoiding. It’s the familiar sound of the anchor being dropped. She hastens to throw her shirt back on, and rushes out onto the deck. There, a bulk of crew crowds around the port side of the ship, gazing into the far distance and chatting amongst their comrades excitedly. Captain Samuels rises to the wheel, and is greeted by Silver Wolf.
“Well. We’re here, cap.” She announces, in a not-so-humble tone.
“Good work as always, Miss Wolf.” Samuels knows that the navigator doesn’t necessarily need the praise after so many previous Reef traversals, but it was generally for the best to pad her ego a little.
“I know.” Case in point.
Out there, across the crystal blue water, is the island of Dreamflux. A lush, forested landmass with shores of beautiful white sand, and a large town built upon it, connecting to the sea with a sizable wharf district. From here, the captain can spy the individual buildings – the taverns, warehouses, homes, and all the outskirt agriculture and miscellany that makes a place hospitable and self-sufficient. It’s home. It’s freedom. At the top of an emerald hill in the northwestern corner of the island is a proud, well-maintained naval fortress, built from rough stone. It is called Fort Dormancy, and it stands in a silent vigil over the surrounding waters – no vessel drop anchor in the Reef without its permission. Countless other ships lie at anchor amongst the shallows, and Firefly recognizes them all. There’s the Express, of course – but also the Fever, the Luofu, the Fiction, the Bloodhound, the Masked Fool, and many more besides. The streets will be busy, and currency will be flowing, with this many captains and crews ashore. Firefly expects raucous celebration at her usual haunt, which would be fine; perhaps it would lift her mood, and that of her own crew. Help them think about things other than oncoming poverty, or mutiny.
Already, rowboats are being brought towards the Slave, eager to ferry the crew towards town in groups. They gather atop the deck in orderly fashion, as instructed. Bustle and fighting for spots was punished harshly in the Slave’s early days, and now the crew is well-behaved and knows to subdue their impatience. Kafka is among them, no doubt eager to see the captain of the Express again.
Silver Wolf chirps at Firefly as she looks out towards home, swaggering up behind her. “Gonna line up?”
“No, I’ll… I’ll let the first few groups go first. You should join them.”
“Pfft.” Silver Wolf hauls herself up onto the railing, swinging her legs over the side. “I’ll go with you.” She responds, offhandedly.
“I appreciate it, thank you.”
“So… chests are a little low, huh?”
Firefly’s eyes fix on Silver Wolf with intensity. “You… aren’t supposed to be looking in them.”
Wolf only shrugs. “You should get better locks, then.”
***
Firefly pushes open the swinging doors to the Hostelry, where the wood creaks, the paint peels, and the drinks are the best you can get in Dreamflux. Nobody turns to look at her intrusion since the patrons are too absorbed in their own separate celebrations, mournings, and plots, and that’s how she prefers it. A well-dressed fellow with a scraggly, dark shadow of a beard waves her in towards the bar, a welcoming smile on his face. He wears professional attire, made admittedly immodest by the adventurous depth of his collar. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, exposing decades of scarring and callouses upon his forearms and hands.
“Mister Gallagher.” She greets him with a nod, and situates herself atop a stool.
“Young Captain Firefly! S’good to see you alive and kickin’.” Gallagher pulls a short, wide glass from beneath the bar and places it between them; it’s polished to a perfect sheen. “What can I getcha?”
If you were to ask anyone in Dreamflux, they would tell you that Gallagher is an upstanding gentleman, an industrious entrepreneur, and the finest drink mixer on the island. The first is a matter of some contention, since it seemed like a fight broke out every other night at the Hostelry, and Gallagher himself was no stranger to joining the scrap to settle it down. The second has only a smattering of truth; he certainly kept coin flowing into Dreamflux, and ran a few mercantile businesses dealing in different cargos, but the pirate crews in particular knew him to also be a fence for stolen goods, and a well-connected one. The third, however, is an outright lie – that honor fell to the tavern’s true manager, Siobhan, a halovian with twice the passion and talent in drink making than Gallagher could ever have. Sure, Gallagher’s name was on the deed, but the Hostelry would be dead without Siobhan’s skill and influence.
Firefly politely covers the rim of the glass with her hand, and Gallagher ceases his motion to grab for her usual drink.
“Ah. No prize, I gather.”
“Not yet. I was actually hoping that… you’d be able to help with that.” She hints. “Surely you have some connections we could use to get some work?”
“Eh, right down to business. I get it.” Gallagher grumbles. “Look, miss, it’s tough out here for everyone. I can’t give preferential treatment – it’s first come, first serve.”
Firefly knew that. A wealth of well-paid work came through Gallagher’s contacts, whenever he needed some contraband moved, or a trade route scoped out, or required a little muscle to remind a stingy buyer to continue a deal. The Slave had done nearly every kind of job he had to offer, but it was always going to run out eventually. Firefly never thought the day would come this soon, though.
“All of it, gone? Not even a textiles run?”
“Not even a textiles run.” He looks at her, sympathetic. “You’re not the only one, young captain. Most other crews in Dreamflux are also having a hard time earning a living.”
“It’s really that bad?”
“’Fraid so. IPC has everyone all shaken up.” He grimaces. “Word is, they kill piracy in pretty much every corner of the globe they come to.”
That didn’t surprise Firefly a jot. More and more treasure vessels had been travelling with IPC protection lately, they’d noticed. The only ships that even stood a chance of contending with such a convoy were the iron-hulled Fever of Captain Landau, and perhaps the sheer belligerent persistence of the Express and her crew – even then, losses would be heavy.
“Do you think they’re going to manage it here, too?”
“Hope not. My bar stories will get pretty boring with a bunch of well-to-do snobs drinking here instead of scum like us.” Gallagher lies – his current tales bear so little truth anyway.
Firefly snorts, and lifts her hand from her glass’ rim. “To scum like us.”
Gallagher smiles, and pours. Then, he gets another glass out, pours it again, and downs it in one gulp at the same instant as Firefly. It goes down smoothly, tastes sweet, and leaves a buzzing warmth in her stomach – same as ever. She reaches into a pocket to produce some payment for the drink, but Gallagher stops her with a grunt.
“No need for that. You only watched me drink two glasses.” He winks. Across the bar, a blonde-haired Halovian squints at him in disbelief.
Firefly sighs, appreciative. “Thank you, Mister Gallagher.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just, ah…” He scratches his stubble thoughtfully. “Just make sure you find some work. You can buy the next one.”
“Work found, captain!” The doors swing open and thump against the walls, loudly and almost certainly on purpose. Kafka paces through with urgency, and there’s not an eye in the tavern that isn’t on her. There’s a scrap of parchment in her hand, until she sees Firefly, and then it’s slammed down onto the bar. “Himeko had a lead, and now it’s ours.” The pride on her face is glowing and tangible.
This close, Firefly can see the irregularities in her first mate. Her hair is tidy, but not as tidy as it was when they landed; her clothes are straightened, but to a degree that almost certainly implies recency. But most damning of all, the slight smudge of red upon the corner of her mouth – lipstick she failed to wipe away. It wasn’t a secret to Firefly or her inner circle that Kafka had hopelessly fallen for the Express’ captain, and it was equally known that Himeko was loathe to reciprocate. How times change.
“And how is the esteemed Miss Murata, Kafka?” Gallagher teases. It seems the barman has noticed as well.
“You be quiet. Real pirates are talking.”
Gallagher playfully raises his hands in surrender, chuckling to himself all the while.
Firefly picks up the page, and scrutinizes the elegant handwriting. It flows like a river across the paper, and not a single inch of space is wasted on frivolous information. It’s exactly how a noble and learned woman like Himeko would write.
“Miss Kafka, could you ask her to teach you this method next time?” Firefly jabs.
“Oh, not you too.”
“The Charmony Dove… a caravel? With no guns?”
Kafka speaks slyly, as if she’s already robbed the thing. “Right? Real good.”
“Kafka, this is the same scenario as the Iris.”
“Ah, but this is different, my captain.” Kafka pulls up a stool and leans an elbow against the bartop. “You know the Express’ M.O, right? They put themselves out there, get close to targets by helping them… and then strike once they have the advantage. This is reliable, they’ve been hunting the Dove for weeks.”
Firefly raises a brow in suspicion. “Weeks of planning, and she just gives this lead to you?”
“Listen, listen, exactly how I got it isn’t important. You trust me, right?” Kafka grins. She’s really banking it all on this plan. “Look there. It’s carrying the ‘Treasure of Penacony.’”
“That’s a bait name if I’ve ever heard one.”
“It’s a phrase from a genuine correspondence between the IPC and – get this – Mr. Wood.”
The captain’s eyes widen. “The governor? The second-richest man on the Asdana?”
“That’s the one. Yeah, it’s supposed to be a gift to congratulate a wedding, or something.” Kafka waves that info away with a blasé hand motion – it doesn’t matter. “Probably some symbolic jewel or heirloom. Maybe just a good old chest of coins. Either way…”
“Either way, it’s an opportunity.” Excitement almost overcomes Firefly, but apprehension creeps back in when she re-reads the note. “Although… it’s not like the IPC to leave a ship unguarded, especially not if it’s got a gift meant for them on board.”
Kafka’s smile grows wider by the second. She’s got this all figured out, Firefly assumes. It’s a safe assumption; Kafka never did anything by halves. “Mr. Wood was industrious enough to already have an escort planned. Enter: the Express. I told you; they’ve been ingratiating themselves for weeks.”
“We don’t own the Express, Kafka.”
“Blade’s dealing with the stragglers as we speak, captain. I’ve also already gathered the crew, they should be… borrowing her, we’ll say, right now.”
Firefly only looks at her in horror.
It was an absolutely insane idea, stealing another crew’s ship from right under their noses – and right on the shores of Dreamflux, the most notorious pirate hideout on the Asdana sea. A fool’s errand, and ill-advised given the tempers of the island’s captains under such a drought of stable work. The reasons to not undertake such a venture were myriad and many. Yet, with a lack of other options, Kafka’s plan already in full effect, and the crew already appraised of the situation, Firefly found herself with little choice in the matter. Refuse, and the crew might mutiny.
“It has to be done now,” Kafka insisted on the way to the rowboats, “The start of the Dove’s route is half a day’s sailing from Dreamflux, and if we want the Express, it has to be done now.”
Captain Samuels hadn’t listened earnestly to her justification, to be frank. What point was there, when she was put in the position of being unable to back out?
True to her first mate’s words, though, Blade had cleaned up nicely. No dead, very few injured, and only minorly. What skeleton crew that remained aboard were dispatched without blood, bound, and then locked below decks. The exception to this rule was a certain grey-haired straggler who put up quite a fight. To Blade’s future retelling, she had descended from the rigging and toppled him, attacking like some kind of wild creature. This is why, when Firefly boards the Express, Blade greets her with the ragged and wild-looking Stelle, her hands tied behind her back. Gold eyes remind the captain of sweeter times.
“Miss Stelle?”
“Firefly! It’s good to see you.” She’s beaming, despite her roughed-up appearance. “What brings you aboard?”
Captain Samuels can’t help but smile. It really was good to see her friend again, even considering the circumstances of the meeting. Perhaps she’d apologize over paid-for drinks later. “We’re just calling in on business. We need to borrow your ship.”
Stelle tuts. “Miss Himeko won’t like that…”
“But I really would~”
The grey-hair sighs dramatically. “Well, I can never say no to you. And, uh…” She tugs at her bindings and winces. “Could we do away with these? Or at least put me somewhere comfy?”
“Mister Blade, could you please situate Miss Stelle in the captain’s quarters?”
Blade obliges wordlessly, as is his wont, and ushers Stelle towards the door beneath the ship’s wheel. He opens the door, Stelle says something to the effect of “Ooh, I’ve never been in here before!” and he shuts it again on her swiftly.
Captain Samuels looks around, at her crew, at the temporary ship, at the open ocean to the north. If they manage to claim this ‘Treasure of Penacony’, it could be life-changing. Finding a buyer could be difficult, but Gallagher had contacts all over Asdana, and Dreamflux was full of skilled fences besides. If the treasure is even a fraction as valuable as Mr. Wood himself was, this would banish the Slave crew’s problems. All they had to do was take it.
“Miss Wolf, get us onto open ocean! Everyone else, take that black flag down, hoist that anchor, and get ready to go hunting!”
***
The plan that Himeko had so meticulously (and now fruitlessly) laid out began with arriving at Port Golden, and identifying themselves as the crew of the Express to the Charmony Dove’s captain. Then, they would form a loose escort formation, and follow the Dove’s line, all the way to a predetermined meeting point, where the cargo would be handed off to an IPC vessel to be delivered the rest of the way. The finesse required in this plan related almost entirely to timing. If the Express moved to board and plunder before losing sight of Port Golden, Penacony Navy ships would fall upon them like Qlipoth’s hammer. If they waited too long, however, they would run afoul of the IPC recipient ships, and likewise come under catastrophic fire.
As it stands, the Express is at anchor, and Port Golden is in sight. The main mast flies a flag denoting collaboration between this ship and another – unique, the only one of its particular design, found amongst the signal flags by Silver Wolf’s keen eye. With this flown, the people – and admiralty – of Port Golden know the Express’ purpose. It’s a guarantee of safety from harm, but it’s also a signal to the Dove, a communique of readiness.
Port Golden itself is quite a sight, especially in the afternoon sun. While light fades all across the Asdana sea, the port stays glowing – tiny lights gilding the cape from one end to the other, a streak of stars against grandiose dwellings, vast warehouses, and ample districts. Legitimate trade flows through here like honey, thick and… well, golden. If there’s a luxury to be found, chances are it’s to be gained through one of the many trade routes that stretch from – and return to – Port Golden.
Everyone is attentive when Kafka explains the procedure to the inner circle, gathered around a barrel with a map of the local waters atop it, and Himeko’s notes in full view of all.
“It’s a good plan,” Blade says, “But I see one problem. A problem exclusive to us.”
Kafka’s wry smile fades when she comes to understand his qualm. “We’re not the Express’ crew.”
The raider nods sagely. “They would have solidified this deal in person. We are four strangers. We’ll be shot as soon as they notice us.”
“Well, that’s not nearly as much of a problem for you, Bladie.” Kafka jests. Blade only grunts in return.
Firefly rubs her jaw with a thumb, thoughtfully. “Perhaps… we could disguise ourselves? With her hair down, Kafka could somewhat emulate Miss Himeko. And Blade, if we dress you in one of Mister Yang’s coats…”
“Captain, you’re kidding, right?” Silver Wolf blurts it out, incredulous. “How is that going to stand up to scrutiny?”
“I-I’m just brainstorming!”
“Firefly, I’m like, two-thirds the height of the pink girl, never mind Stelle’s whole… deal. And I’m definitely not selling a Vidyadhara guy…”
Blade hums. “We’re not the Express crew… but we do have one of them on board.” His gaze drifts towards the door to the captain’s quarters, and he sighs, weakly.
There’s a silence as the four slowly come to acknowledge the possibility that this score now rests on the shoulders of Stelle. Stelle, who digs through trash for fun. Stelle, who talks to inanimate objects. Stelle, who has more reason than anyone currently aboard to sabotage their chances.
Firefly takes an exasperated step away from the map, wanders to the quarterdeck railing, and looks down at her crew, who are doing their best to make this unfamiliar ship obey. Sinking the Iris was repayment for an earlier kindness given by the Express crew, and now she had to repay them for taking their ship. It wouldn’t be easy as it was, but making Stelle an accomplice complicated things even further. As far as Samuels could tell, that girl was chaos given breath and a pair of opposable thumbs; if something went wrong in Dreamflux, it was probably her, or at the very least, her idea. Two months ago, the whole island went onto high alert because a canon fired from the Express sea-facing side, and it took hours to reassure the populace that they weren’t under navy attack. Later, over drinks, Stelle admitted that it was her doing – she was over-eager to test the ship’s new firepower, citing a need to ‘make sure it wasn’t a dud’. She was a fine pirate whenever Himeko or Welt were around; in their absence, though, she was unpredictable as the wind.
What other option lay before Firefly, though? Try to fool the Dove that the crew had undergone massive physical changes? Make contact and hope they don’t ask? No, Stelle was the only way forward. One familiar face is better than none, and with how Stelle is, Firefly would be surprised if that particular face was forgotten.
Kafka coughs into a fist to grab Firefly’s attention once more. “Well, captain… it’s your call.”
“You’re giving me a choice on this part of the plan?” Captain Samuels grumbles. “Aeons, I can’t even call it a choice, really. I’ll talk to her.” She releases the railing, and makes for Himeko’s quarters.
It unsettles her when the third step down does not creak. She already misses Destiny’s Slave. Being aboard the Express, while not for the first time, feels like moving in a body that doesn’t belong to her. Even the wind across the deck feels wrong. The same uncertainty was demonstrated in the journey – turning had been sluggardly, gaining full speed was clumsy and stalled, and the whole ship felt so much heavier in the front. Some of these could be explained away by the crew’s methods needing to be adjusted to operate the different sail plan, but when the body of the craft seems to lean forward by even as small an amount as an inch, it becomes concerning for everyone on board.
Samuels almost knocks upon the captain’s door, that instinct of respect still bubbling to the surface, but retracts her knuckles when she remembers that she’s the captain now, technically. The door swings open with no effort at all, and she’s attended by the sight of a room that looks more like a workshop than someone’s living space. Sure, there’s a hammock, a few chairs, a dresser, cabinet, the large desk of a woman who spends her days planning – but almost every surface is covered in projects of the hand. Weaponry and machined objects, from the size of a palm-pistol to the magnitude what seemed to be a bellows-shaped device, are strewn across the ground, desk, leaning against the wall – wherever there was space. Not every item is in one piece, either. Firefly can’t tell if they’re destroyed relics or works-in-progress.
Stranger still, is Stelle (perhaps that’s par for the course). Still with her arms bound behind her back, she is crouched behind Himeko’s desk, only visible from her eyes upward. Those eyes are wide, and Firefly feels like she’s just startled an animal.
“Hyire-hlyyy!” The corners of Stelle’s eyes stretch with joy, and Samuels just knows she’s smiling behind there. The girl lets something drop from her mouth, which clatters against the wood floor, and she stands. “Hey again!”
“Wh-what are you doing back there?”
“Oh, uh, just trying to…” She gazes down at a spot just behind the desk, sheepishly. “I was trying to open the desk drawer.”
“Miss Murata’s drawer?”
“Yes.”
“With your mouth?”
“With my teeth, yes.”
Completely untamed. Prone to bouts of whimsy. A creature of instinct. Descriptions come to Firefly’s mind in rapid-fire cadence, proven true time and again. Her mouth hangs open as she thinks and rethinks what to even say to such a display. “Well… did you get it open?” She settles on this.
“Nah, I couldn’t turn the key enough. And now it’s on the floor, so…” Stelle shrugs. “I’ll never know.”
It takes some effort to banish the giggle that rises in Firefly’s chest. It comes out like a shaky breath, and the corners of her lips curl upwards just a little. A freer spirit there never could be.
“Stelle, I’ve a favor to ask.”
“Oh, besides borrowing our ship?”
“…Yes.”
Stelle whistles, and uses her foot to nudge Himeko’s chair back from its tucked position under the desk. She sits on it, and stacks her legs on top of each other upon the desk’s surface. It looks uncomfortable with her arms still stuck stiff behind her, but Firefly assumes Stelle must think she looks terribly savvy.
“Let’s hear it.”
Firefly treads towards the desk, and pulls out a chair across from Stelle. She takes a relaxed seat, clasping her hands together politely. “Has Miss Murata spoken on a ship called the Charmony Dove?”
Stelle’s brow raises, and she nods. “So that’s why you did it. And we’ve stopped because…” She grabs one edge of her seat, and tryingly scoots it closer to the desk, one hop at a time, before continuing in the best ‘I have all the cards’ voice she can possibly muster, “You need me to give the go-ahead.”
Samuels confirms her suspicion with a two-note hum. “I’ll cut you in on the prize, once we have it.”
“Half.”
“Forty percent.”
“Ha-alf~” Stelle teases. “My ship, my face. This job doesn’t happen without me.”
“Stelle…”
“Think of it as legitimate pay for collaboration with the Express. I’ll even keep the rest of the crew off you for taking her in the first place.” She winks. “It’s a good deal.”
Who’s to say how thunderous Miss Himeko’s wrath could be? The Slave had always maintained a working relationship with the Express – albeit a strenuous one, thanks to Kafka’s insistence on making herself a besotted annoyance to Himeko – but it’s been made perilous. It’s not lost on Firefly that the peril is, once again, a result of Kafka’s influence, but that was something to deal with later. Right now, the Slave crew needed to produce something of worth to justify their actions.
Perhaps… half is fair, Samuels weighs it in her mind.
If the ‘Treasure of Penacony’ is a single item of great worth, it could take some time to find a buyer for it. It was important enough to be named – which means it would be easy to identify and trace, which could cause problems down the line. Nobody wants to be bestowed with such a high-profile piece, last known to be plundered by pirates. Caution would be required in fencing it, perhaps even a complete restructuring of the item itself. Of course, there are too many possibilities to consider of what exactly the item is. If it’s a crate of coins, jewels, rare metals, or some other luxury export, the spoils could be divided more readily. This is all speculation, for Firefly, and that made it scary. She preferred hunts where the prize was already known, so she and Kafka could better plan how to divvy up the gains.
“Do you know what the prize is, Stelle?”
“The ‘Treasure of Penacony’.”
“…But what is it?”
Stelle clicks her tongue noncommittally. “Oh, I’ve got no idea.”
“What if it’s something we can’t halve immediately? What if I need to run it through Mister Gallagher?” Firefly inquires. “What if it’ll take time to move?”
“Half, and I make sure that you have all the time you need.” Stelle tilts her head forward slyly, peeking at Samuels from under her messy fringe. “That’s a promise.”
Firefly sits in silence for a moment. Stelle seems confident in her ability to play the right part, to sell their false intent. It would be easy to trust that face, dashing and assured in her own talent – but people had trusted Stelle before, and paid some kind of price for it. That said, she was a long-time friend. She’d even served for a short amount of time on the Slave, as a part of the boarding party. Her capability was never in question, only her commitment to any given idea at a time.
Firefly stands, walks behind Stelle, and motions her to stand. Stelle grins as she rises. The captain pulls her saber free from its scabbard, and with a single, downward saw, frees the wildcard of the Express.
***
True to her word, Stelle took the stage, and put on a convincing enough performance to the captain of the Charmony Dove. She was the Express’ first mate in her story, and the captain had fallen ill; “Idrila’s Rot,” She had said, “It’s all very worrying.” The fresher faces of Firefly, Kafka, Blade, and Wolf were ‘new recruits’, eager to prove their worth, and loyal to a fault. Perhaps she took more liberties with the script than Firefly would like – was the tale about the tragic stunted growth of her ‘sister’, Silver Wolf, really necessary? Or the lie about Blade’s ‘muteness’? – but the result was still desirable, even if it left the Dove’s captain bewildered. Both ships left Port Golden behind, embarked northeast in the direction of IPC territory, and as a reward, Stelle was allowed to walk the deck untied. That last development has Blade keeping one hand on the hilt of his sword, though, despite assurances from both Firefly and Kafka that there’s very little trouble she could cause from that point onward.
The Charmony Dove is just ahead of them, off the bow and portside, at a comfortable cruising speed. It would be easy to pull the same trick the Slave used on the Iris, and destroy her sails with chain shot fired from the bow chasers. As it stood, that would be the best plan of action, were it not for the less-than-ideal distance from Port Golden. No, Samuels will have to wait a little before giving that order. For now, the game was to enjoy the voyage, salivate at how close their prize was, and as always, keep a vigilant eye upon the horizon. The latter task is made somewhat difficult with the sun now skimming the sea, harshly illuminating everything to the west. Already, stars are beginning to twinkle in the blacker half of the sky, and both crews start to light lamps all across their respective vessels.
Kafka has the wheel, Silver Wolf is reading star charts below deck, and Captain Samuels has the privilege of being able to lounge around for a moment. She picks a perfect spot; right at the stern of the ship, watching Port Golden grow smaller and smaller. She’s leaning against the side, her head turned to face astern, her uncovered hair being assaulted by the breeze. It flicks across her face, along with a gentle, misty spray of ocean water, and she smiles. However, it doesn’t last. Pain flares up in her chest and left shoulder, needles under the skin, snaking towards her face. She winces, and her hand shoots up to her jaw, gripping it tightly. She drops her hat to the floor and whimpers as the pain intensifies. Firefly slinks to the ground, crouching into a loose ball before falling onto her backside and letting herself rest against the side of the ship.
Her eyes squeeze shut until she feels a hand on her shoulder. Blade is kneeling next to her, a forlorn worry carved into his usually emotionless visage. “Your sickness?”
Firefly nods with gritted teeth. “The… the crew…”
“Can’t see you from here.” Blade assures, softly.
“…Good.”
Blade pinches the collar of Firefly’s coat between thumb and forefinger. “Allow me.”
Firefly just stares at him for a moment. Her gaze sees the back of Kafka, who is peering over her shoulder at the two, her brow furrowed in concern. Samuels yields, and slips her arms from the sleeves of her coat. She removes her shirt, and Blade begins to gently unwind her bandages. They stick, and peel off in a concerningly grotesque way.
“Captain, you must remember to change them.”
“I haven’t had the time.” Firefly whines when the bandage across her neck slowly tears from her skin. “Do you… change yours?”
“I don’t need to. You do.”
“What’s it like, Blade?” Her teeth are chattering now. The night air washes over her exposed, scarred flesh, and it burns coldly. “Knowing you’ll never die?”
“I wouldn’t choose it, had I the chance.” He drones, frowning.
Firefly can’t tell if he’s frowning at the state of her dying body, or if he’s more bothered by the fact she’s been neglecting it. Guilt creeps into her.
Blade’s next words only hammer it deeper. “You have but one life to live. I do not care to watch you waste it.”
The final weave of dressing pulls away with a quiet wetness. Blade bundles it all up into a roll, and sets it aside. Firefly is shivering in the cold, now, but she’s aware of the next step, and knows that it’ll bring some measure of warmth. She holds out.
Blade pulls a small iron flask from his hip, uncorks it, and holds his empty palm up. “Your hand.”
She places the hand of her sick arm into Blade’s, and tries to steady her breathing. In and out, deep inhales and exhales. She doesn’t notice that her knuckles are white around the raider’s hand. Blade raises the flask to her shoulder, and begins to tilt it, wearing the face of pity all the while. Firefly squeaks when the clear liquid splashes onto her collarbone, and runs down her chest and arm in tiny rivers. It's freezing, but it sears like the phlegethon. Her hand squeezes tighter, and she throws her head back in agony as it burns away the rot.
“It’s alright.” Blade purrs, moving the stream to fall upon more of the infected area.
Firefly convulses in response, and tears form in her eyes. The stars above blur, drowned in salt water, pain, and bad memories. Time becomes imperceptible through the lens of the scouring cleanse, and before long, Blade is patting down Firefly’s disinfected sores with a cloth. Once that’s done, he produces clean gauze and dressings from inside his jacket, and applies them with practiced efficiency. She still has tear streaks on her face when she speaks again, quiet and weak.
“Mister Blade… thank you.”
“…In the future, I trust you will not need my intervention.” Is all he says in response.
“Captain,” Kafka stage-whispers from the wheel. “Golden’s gone. Now’s probably the best chance we have.”
Firefly just nods, and Blade helps her to her feet. She slides her shirt back on, throws her coat over it, and rolls her shoulder a few times to push away the lingering pain. It still burns, but in a low smolder, rather than a sharp, irrepressible wildfire.
“Miss Kafka, my voice seems to have taken its leave,” She lies. Truth is, she’s just not feeling a shout coming on. “Would you please order the crew to disable the Dove, and prepare to board?”