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[FURY] The Leviathan (August 3.0)
August
Riding your H-Bike out over the blood sea after a vessel you know to be prone to violence doesn’t seem wise. But this seems important enough not to let it disappear back into the blood sea. Something you just have to see, touch, make real.
What you didn’t expect was to spend five… or was it six… nights aboard the strange vessel as… let’s just say as a guest. By the time you reached the ship your head was spinning, your throat burning from the red all ‘round… only a good rider can cover water safely, and the open sea… you’re lucky to still be breathing air.
The ship is a good sized vessel of steel plates and girders. An old cargo ship, clearly, and somehow they’ve kept it afloat, a thick layer of some viscous coating seems to be spread on the hull below and well above the waterline and it looks like it needs to be frequently replenished. Several crane-like arms hang over the side with ropes and chains hanging in loops near the water line. A small landing boat hangs near the stern.
Heavily covered figures move about the deck, clad head to toe in some kind of heavy suit with a mechanical breather of some sort and glass over the eyes. Looks slow, uncomfortable, but it looks pretty tough, too and apparently keeps out the worst of the red. But inside, men… women. Just people… but suited up like something from a nightmare. Heavy canvas coated in a dried coating of what may be that same viscous stuff…. rubberized boots and gloves make them ponderous and almost clumsy.
Figure you could ride up audaciously and let yourself be known, charm whoever you find there with words and mystery... well, that got you on board without a hitch. Problem is nobody seems inclined to let you leave.
Your quarters are Spartan, musty little cramp of a room with little comfort. But that doesn't seem unlike every room aboard. This ship is all hard edges and rust. Nobody's living well here.
Let’s see how things turned out. Please roll+Hot. On a 10+ pick 3. On a 7-9 pick two. On a miss pick one but expect the worst…
▪ your stories and charisma allowed you to arrive not as a prisoner, but as a guest. You were allowed to roam and perform for the important people aboard and you can recognize them by face and name.
▪ you were able to sneak from your quarters at night and carefully observe the operation of the ship. You know it’s weaknesses and strengths.
▪ you were able to observe the coast and take careful notes during the journey and know where the ship makes port.
▪ you gained the trust of a member of the crew who just arrived at your door with one of their breather suits and the keys to your h-bike. You can get away without chance of discovery or further sickness.
In any case, you’re in good enough health to make your escape and the ship is passing near enough that you can see the hazy outline of SafeCo through the morning mists.
If escaping is what you mean to do.
What do you do?
Comments
Love letter (marking exp and advancing)
(Rolled: 2d6+3. Rolls: 1, 3. Total: 7)
I am a guest, not a prisoner.
I have been sneaking about and noting strengths and weaknesses.
The red wave.
Being on board the ship, nearly with the run of it, felt almost like making a home inside one of the toothy jungle trees. But unlike those trees, this ship had rules. And I loved learning the rules of a new place, because it taught me how to break them.
They were slow to trust here though -- I'd found a mechanic who had access to my bike, but she wasn't quite ready to go so far as to hand me the keys. And the captain, well, I still hadn't quite the access that I wanted yet.
At dinner tonight, I'll push harder. I'll tell them the story of Kinder the toy princess, with her little mechanical heart, all the way to the end. That always ends in tears.
August
Most of what you've seen aboard is all business. Bare metal most places, rusted, corroded, exposd to the air and the red. But it's sturdy and well maintained. Couple of the crew are constantly on maintenance and it shows.
Seems like about thirty to forty people on board. Men and women, no children. There's a couple of decks below for engines and cargo. People sleeping in the raised portions of the aft. They wear those suits any time they're exposed to outside air, and the breathers always. Even below decks it isn't quite safe... except the wheelhouse, some of the sleeping quarters, and the galley are ventilated. There, at least you can breathe and talk normally. Though it seems like someone's always coughing and you're sure it's not safe to stay too long.
You spoke to a couple of the crew, Glover, that mechanic you really should have gotten to know better. Dark smoky soot clinging to her face and stuck under her fingernails. And Watauga, a quiet fellow who seems to be given responsibility over you and who seems pleased enough to follow you around the deck... from a distance usually.
Near the prow, an area still off-limits, is a mounted cannon of some sort. The thing is heavy and there's metal-looking hoses and tanks of... something. Pretty sure it spouts flames, that's what took down the Harbormaster's place. So that's serious business. And it's clear that the crew know their way around a weapon. This ship could do some serious damage. Their smaller landing boats aren't so heavily armed but it's clear the crew know something about explosives.
Where it's weak though... the engine, below decks, is a huge monster of a thing which burns hot and it requires constant back breaking manual labor to keep fired and a source of fuel to feed it. Also, the crew are encumbered and deafened by their suits and the sound of the ship and you were able to get right up to it, almost, before anyone knew you were there. Clearly they don't expect to see anything on the water which could challenge them and there wasn't even much of a watch.
That may have changed, though, since you arrived. And it seems like someone's always watching the coast.
---
Dinner. You're in the filtered area of the ship so most of the crew here at least have their masks off, and a few have removed their suits. The captain remains out of sight, though... though it seems like he may be one of the few who don't remove their gear. Maybe he doesn't want to be seen.
Let's roll Artful and Gracious to see how you perform at dinner. Then we'll add some more detail.
Without my masks, I improvise with a rickety wire crown, bent at the top into something resembling a heart.
I begin the story loudly, almost yelling. I finish it just above a whisper.
Kinder was a seeker. She knew not her maker, or any other like her. She awoke in a tin castle, with brass minarets and hematite floors. Sipped upon goblets filled with iridescent oil.
Her crown, pounded-thin copper and a single blood carnelian.
She left it behind her, looking for answers.
She found only more questions. And a quartz slipper, mayhap. Her journey, though beautiful, ends in salt and rust. Stillness, dread stillness.
One cannot hope but to hear that she will be rescued, but she is not.
I am simply silent, no other coda.
The story has never ended with applause.
Artful & Gracious
(Rolled: 2d6+3. Rolls: 5, 3. Total: 11)
Glover must give me a gift.
Watauga loves me.
The captain must meet me.
August
It’s good that you begin loudly as the crew is tired, hot, and hungry. The galley is a long rectangular room with a long serving counter along one edge which opens to the small kitchen. Meals have been simple and filling, a thick broth made with the bones of some animal or fish… boiled down to a gloopy collagen which doesn’t taste bad but has a questionable texture. Rolls of a dark, hard bread make the meal and everyone seems to have their own way of dipping and tearing and scooping up their stew. You’re given a generous portion, the equal of any if not a little better.
Nobody’s asked anything of you, really. You’re not put to work, even though you’re pretty sure the laborers below decks in the hot engine room seem pressed into work more than volunteers. It’s hot enough down there that you couldn’t linger too long and it didn’t feel like you were welcome.
Your story goes on, and one by one the crew stop their distracted chatting and turn eyes to you. Somewhere around half way, when you drop your voice down quiet, it’s quiet and still and everyone’s watching you. You see a forlorn longing in Watauga’s eye.
The mechanic, Glover, fidgets and you notice the keys to your h-bike in her hand. She’s been in charge of it since you came aboard and she keeps glancing at them as you perform.
You look up for a moment and for the first time you notice a man standing in the door… a man looking confident and well dressed in an old naval-style coat and hat, heavy goggles on the brim of his hat and a long well-groomed beard to the middle of his collar. He must be Captain Portar. You’ve heard the name spoken with deference… the kind of deference that to you speaks more of fear than loyalty. But it’s the first time you’ve seen him in person.
Your story finishes… silence.
Watauga slowly stands and he’s about to approach you… but then the captain himself suddenly applauds. A single clap, another… a little smirk on his face and you’re not sure if he’s sincere or if he’s making some kind of joke.
“Everyone back to workstations,” Portar says softly, but with such deep confidence that everyone silently slides out of seats and without a word the room begins to empty.... except for you and him across the room. And Watauga who lingers until the captain dismisses him with a subtle nod of his chin.
Going to let him have the first word?
What do you do?
I remove the wire crown from my head, firm up its lines with my hands while the crowds leave the room.
When it is only myself and Portar, I extend the crown towards him for his inspection. It is also an invitation for him to come closer.
"This should be yours, I suppose." I speak at normal volume again, which likely sounds loud after the hush of before.
Portar takes a few slow steps forward as you offer him your makeshift crown, he takes it with arm extended then turns it over in his hands and rubs his thumb along the bent metal.
"I'm no king..." he says quietly, looking past your hand to your face. "A captain doesn't wear a crown."
He considers it another moment before offering it back to you. "I'm also no poet, and I'm not sure I like what you're trying to say... but I admire how you say it." His eyes stay on your face, not wandering your body like most men's do.
He narrows his eyes slightly as he watches you, "Why did you come here? You're lucky you weren't spilled dead into the red at a hundred yards. So why did you come?"
What do you do?
I almost expect static when he touches the wire, but that is just an odd fancy.
I accept the compliment with a nod. "It's not a pleasant story, but it has a bleak sacredness to it."
His real question, I consider for a moment. Of course, I'd thought about this more than once during my enforced stay. "I'm still not quite sure," I say, truthfully. "Have you ever been called to something unknown on the horizon?"
What else would I tell him? That I'd had visions of a red wave and felt compelled to seek out the root of them?
"I guess I'm wondering why you're here too," I add, gesturing towards SafeCo.
I wonder what he thinks of me. At the least, perhaps, half-mad to skate over the rough waters?
Read a person.
(Rolled: 2d6. Rolls: 6, 4. Total: 10)
Spending two hold:
What does the Captain intend to do?
And what does he wish I'd do?
Portar is hard to read but you pick up hints and subtle cues. His eyes narrow, he stands still almost like SeaTac does sometimes, that kind of personal discipline that stands out. He takes a deep breath and thinks on your question before answering.
"I'm a sailor," he says it with a deep, subtle pride, then he coughs suddenly into a cloth kerchief that all but appeared from his pocket.
"The horizon is always there in my world..." the captain gestures as if towards the horizon with one hand. "And it's filthy with nests of vermin. The worst kinds of people... living disgusting little lives. Selfish, pitiful, violent creatures mewling and prattling for scraps while the world dies..."
You can see the poorly hidden disgust on his face. Portar has some kind of plan for the coast, for the city, and it doesn't feel like a peaceful one. He intends to bring some sort of justice he feels he owes to the city, to SafeCo, probably, to Pike's, yes... to everyone. If he can.
Portar realizes he's been slightly losing his composure in his outburst. He returns his kerchief to his pocket and again looks into your face. "You're not one of them, are you?"
Portar wants you to show that you're special, that you're not like whoever it is he seems to hate so much. He can't decide if you're a threat, a spy, maybe, and he wants you to show that you trust him and that he should trust you. Also, he's trying not to give in to base desires, but he is a man, he's been alone at sea for a long time. He wants you to lay with him too.
What do you do?
I don't deign to answer his question. The expression on my face should be answer enough.
Inwardly my heart is racing. My pulse throbs in my wrist, in my neck.
I smooth my hands down the loose cotton shift that I was given to replace my red-soaked clothes. I look away from the horizon. "I was hoping that you might be the one to entrust with my journey." I let disappointment coat my tongue. "I have been alone for too long, beset on all sides by fools and monsters. I was sure, when I saw your ship, that no matter what I found, such a thing must be helmed by someone with a greater vision than those I had left behind."
I grip one of Portar's hands in both of mine, step into the space closest to him. "Small-minded fools too concerned with the past to look for the future. Tell me you're not like them, good sailor. Tell me you're bigger than that."
There is a breathy offer of myself, hinted at, not yet overt. I find myself adopting a cadence almost like when I tell a story, but with a provocation and attention that feels almost sexual.
Taking Hypnotic as my advance and using my wiles on the Captain.
Marking xp with this roll.
(Rolled: 2d6+3. Rolls: 6, 3. Total: 12)
Nice roll. He's becoming entranced with you for sure. Would like to see a little more time before it really clicks, but you're just about there. The roll stands but I want to see where this conversation goes.
He tightens up a bit as you step so close. Not worried about weapons, you've been thorougly searched of course. But he doesn't want to show weakness... need. He tightens his grip on your hand, though.
Portar looks deeply into your eyes, "those fools will know soon enough. They fear the sea... the red. But I make it our safety. Our greatest weapon. They don't stand a chance against this ship. Against me, my people. We'll find where they're weak and tear them to pieces!"
A little snarl appears on his lip as he talks, a little too much passion in his voice. You can feel his hand shake a bit. Maybe it's his vision of this future or maybe you're getting to him. Your body so close to his as the thrum-thrum-thrum of the engines reverberates through you.
"August," of course he knows your name from the others, "I can't just let you go back there. It's not safe for you... it's not safe for us. But you can help. You can have a place in our future. My future."
He steps a bit closer, his thigh touches yours and you feel his body heat against you.
What do you do?
"The sea, my sailor, is vast. The ocean, dear captain, is unfathomable. That place," I gesture towards SafeCo and the environs, "is tiny. It is nothing to us. Not worth our time. It ... isn't pointing forward." Dog would kick me if she heard me right now.
I lean in against him, my body against the length of him, as if unconscious of the physicality of his rising need between us. "If you don't realize this yet, you will soon. I want to help you. I will make you bigger than you are. This is too much for anyone but you."
"If you are so intent, though, on leaving ashes in our wake. I understand." I let go of Portar's hands to pull his sides towards me, even though we can't be any closer together than we already are. "A fire burns in you. I can feel it. I have only my sisters to fetch and bring with me. And then I will let you convince me to turn it into cinders."
Spending last hold. How can I convince him that I need to briefly return to shore?
Portar places a hand on the small of your back, holding you to him. He smells of sweat and grease, the smells of his ship. His grip is firm but also careful, like he doesn't want to show too much desire.
"They will all be ashes in the end," he says like a promise. His eyes narrow, though as you mention your sisters and a little appreciative sneer is visible on his lip as you say those words about cinders... like the thought of burning the coast with you at his side is totally turning him on.
But he grips you slightly tighter, hesitates only a moment and answers, "I told you. There is no return."
Portar is pretty much entirely against letting you return. You could probalby convince him to send someone with your message, or possibly someone he trusts to go with you. He's probably not letting you leave with your bike, but of course you've caught the man in your hypnotic web, so really you can probably push it... wouldn't push too fast too soon, but he's falling for you, like it or not. At least while your hold lasts.
What do you do?
I nod slowly against him, as if swayed by his arguments and almost drunk on his conviction. "You are right. There is no return. You will send someone to them for me then? A messenger? Perhaps Watauga."
"But I do not yet want to think about my sisters. I want to think about you. There is so much I do not know."
Portar nods in agreement. "Watauga can be trusted, who are your sisters? They can't be as special as you but they are welcome as long as they don't question." He says those last few words with a grave finality.
The captain slides a hand up your side to rest below your shoulder, a gentle pull like he means to kiss you.
"Soon we will make port and resupply... you will learn much and understand."
The man suddenly turns his head and coughs into his shoulder, loosens his grip on you as he's distracted. His cough sounds dry like something's broken inside him. He clears his throat and nods gravely to you.
What do you do?
I pull back and hold still while he coughs, my expression of concern a question in and of itself.
And he nods, I answer his question, still watching him carefully in case he might shudder again. "They are family," I say simply, shrugging. "When they see your vision, questions won't even occur to them."
"I will go to Watauga then, with your blessing, and tell him how to reach my sisters and how to make them trust him."
If you hadn't muddled his judgement the man would probably see the problem here. But instead he slides that hand again down your side to your hip. You can just feel his desire. "Do it. You are my guest about this ship, from today on, you eat and sleep with me."
He removes his hand and regains a bit of composure, a look at the door to make sure nobody's been watching this. he clasps his hands behind his back and stands straight.
"Tell him you speak with my orders. If he doubts you, send him to me."
What do you do?
"I will do as you say." I take his hand, so recently withdrawn, and bring the back of it to my lips. Against it, I say, "And then tonight, I will come to you."
Then I take my leaving, and go looking for Watauga.
The ship has a long hall stretching much of the way from the wheelhouse aft nearly to the prow. You can reach much of the deck from here. At several points along the hall you have to slip through double-layered plastic sheeting in order to get past. Here and there is a space with those suits hanging on hooks and racks of gear.
Each crew member has their own suit of gear sized to fit. You don't have your own and although you can go on deck unprotected for a few minutes at a time, you wouldn't dare work out there for long without gearing up.
You find Watauga in this hall just politely out of earshot from the dining hall.
"Captain have words for you?" asks Watauga, seeming genuinely curious as he stands with crossed arms.
What do you do?
Some of the fear that I've been holding tight in my belly like a lump of tar is seeping onto my face. I let Watauga see it, there's no harm in it.
I speak quietly, so just the two of us can hear:
"Captain has more than words for me," I shake my head as if chasing cobwebs out of it. "So I know better than to question them. He says we're not long for this coast, gonna leave it all ash behind us. But he said that I could send you to get my sisters first."
I look Watauga searchingly in the eyes, real honest-like. "Is that really safe for you to do, Watauga? I couldn't bear the thought that you'd be in danger. I know we haven't known each other for long, but you've been a real comfort for me here."
The tarry fear sticks to my throat, means I'm barely choking up words.
Watauga is susprised at your loss of composure, even a little. He hasn't seen you reveal much of yourself to him. He opens his mouth and hesitates as he looks for words.
"Am... am I... Important to you, August?" He had no idea, probably thought you viewed him as an annoyance. The man assigned to watch you. "I didn't think you noticed how I was watching out for you. Not just keeping tabs."
His hands raise slighly like he considers hugging you for a second, but a llittle turn of the head towards the galley and he doesn't really dare.
What do you do?
When Watauga reacts, I mirror both his reaching out and the stifling of it. Instead of looking towards the galley, I look towards my feet in false embarrassment. "I've noticed, well, a lot about you, Watauga. Right now, I sort of have nothing, you know? But having you there was," I break off, looking for words, settling on, "a bit of clear water in a sea of red."
The tar is cold and hard now, back behind the cage of my ribs where it belongs.
Watauga glances down for a second, a little bit embarrassed. "It was amazing finding you out on the water like that. I don't know how you did that, or even how you found us."
He seems to be enchanted by your vulnerability, real or not. You're a good actor. He takes a breath and tries to sound the hero.
"Where can I find your sisters? They don't want to be there when the captain makes the call... I'll find them for you."
What do youd do?
I clutch at his hand, furtively, as if seized with emotion. "Oh, truly you are my solace."
I let go of his hand as if reluctantly, looking around to ensure we weren't seen. "My sister Bon, she's the responsible one. You will know her by the mark on her head, like two crossed lines." I trace fingers on his forehead in the way of Bon's Medicai mark. I think on who to name. How many sisters should I have? "My sisters won't look like me, our fathers were not the same. But Bon will find Belka and Chance."
"But, you must show them something so that they believe you."
I take his hands again, still careful so that we aren't seen, and press them into three gestures. I make him repeat them, so that they are clear.
I have a flash of déjà vu, but once I sift through it, I remember showing SeaTac how to sign. Instead of ::There's a splashing threat here, don't tell anyone::, I teach Watauga one a little different. ::There's a splashing threat here:: looks the same. ::Don't tell me:: is a small change in emphasis. The last sign is the one we use when we're going to go slicing into danger all alone, looking like easy prey, and we're asking the other Arrows to follow. So, yes, it means ::Arrows follow:: but much more besides.
"Show Bon this, and she will know you truly come with my message. She will know what to do."
We still haven't had our lessons, me and SeaTac. I hope we'll still be able to. The first sliver of real doubt to cut through the red.
Watauga repeats your words quietly to himself, "mark on her head... Bon... Belka... Chance..."
He struggles to copy the gestures you show him. Work aboard the ship is brutal, heavy work and you can feel his hands rough and calloused from difficult labor. But he concentrates and you show him what to do enough times until you're sure of your message.
"She can't just come here. We'll arrange a meeting... a place to come by night and board the tender." He turns your hand over in his as he talks and practices the signs.
---
Suddenly there's a whistle from somewhere on the ship, and a call goes up and down the halls. "Attention on deck. Attention on deck!"
Watauga looks a bit startled. "Already? August go back to your room. We're almost home... you don't have to see this." His face is a little pale like remembering a sadness.
Crew members emerge and start shuffling up the hall to dress for deck.
What do you do?
Watauga's reaction to his homeland is concerning, but then so might many of us react. The world is cruel. When he tries to send me away, I shake my head. "The Captain told me I would learn much when we reach port -- this is my life now. With you. Bring me a suit that will fit well enough for a time, or else something more temporary that will show me what I need to know."
Wataugs thinks, looks at your face. Takes a deep breath and starts to slowly nod. "Okay... ok come with me..."
He leads you down the hall through the plastc sheeting to one of the makeshift airlocks. He pulls his gear down from their place on the wall and pulls everything on like it's second nature. The suit is heavy and looks hot, he steps into the trousers and pulls them up with suspenders, a smock like a loose firefighter's coat goes over that, sealed at the hands with already-attached gloves.
He pulls his hood over the head and secured a tight rubber gasket around his neck with a twist. You can barely see his eyes through the tarnished visor. But he nods to you, and has to shout now to be heard.
"Here... hold this over your face," he removes another facemask from a peg, checks the filter and wipes it clean with a findger before handing it to you.
There's no suit for you, no protection except the mask.
What do you do?
I don't hesitate, just take it from him and pull it over my head. There's a brief moment where I almost laugh, catching a glimpse of my odd reflection in Watauga's visor, but I stop myself.
What's a bit of red, anyway?
When I've finished fixing the straps and whatnot, I turn around so that he can tell me if I've done it wrong. Then turn back to look him in the eyes through our respective slivers of vision.
"Let's go," I say. "We'll see how much I can take."
August
You follow Watauga down the hall, holding the breather in the mask close to your face. He pulls open the last layer of plastic sheeting and you're hit by the dank stench in the air. It permeates everything aboard, but it's far worse once you're through. And even through the filter.
He leads you up a set of narrow metal steps up to the deck of the ship. You follow Watauga to the rail, surrounded by red and the deck slick with bloody red sea spray from a morning blood rain.
Many of the other crew stand solemnly nearby mostly still. It's nearly impossible to know who is who, whether the captain himself is even here. The silence is broken by one of the crew waving to someone off the side of the ship.
You sail slowly past a shocking ruin of broken boats, twisted metal, rotting piles of rusted junk half submerged in the red. You can almost hear the metal slowly disintegrating away as you pass. Hundreds of ships of all sizes lay against each other and broken into countless pieces and piles of debris on the shore.
Plumes of black-red smoke tendril up into the sky from somewhere among the wreckage.
As your eyes adjust to the dusk light you notice the people. Dozens of people climb and crawl around the broken hulls. Faces covered in rough cloth masks as they don't have the same protection as the crew... whatever they're doing there they must be breathing the red. Walking in it. Working in it.
The whole place seems drenched. Like nowhere is really ever dry. Or safe.
"Home..." says Watauga sadly. "They left us here... The captain is changing that."
What do you do?
"Why..." I trail off, then try again. "Why do they stay? And who left you behind?"
So much red. So much loss.
Watauga stands watching. A grave nod at someone he must know who silently turns to watch the ship pass.
"Generations..." he says finally. He has to speak up to be heard through the suit and the thrum-thrum of the ship's engines.
He unfastens a metal catch at his temple and swings his visor open to more easily speak with you.
"Nobody will have us... we've lived here for generations just digging through the soaking scrap. Trading machines and metal for scraps of food and clean water." He looks over the other shoulder towards the mainland. Towards home. "You... those people treat us like filth. Like poison. Nobody will have us. So the captain and the engineers made this happen. For all of us. We're going to take what's ours."
He nods, his eyes serious and grave. He believes it.
What do you do?
Take a bunch of scared people, people with nothing. Teach them to hate, teach them to begrudge others their success. Make them dependent on you for their livelihood. Promise them something greater. Hard to fathom why such a delightful bunch wouldn't be welcome in SeaTown.
Made me grateful old man Gates wasn't the sort of man who dealt in brimstone, or his crowd'd be a whole lot worse.
Best way to deal with zealots is to publicly buy into their screed and then get the flood out of dodge. So I nod. "There will be a reckoning, don't doubt that."
The wind was cold against my exposed legs, crimson spray that I'd have to scrub off carefully. The air, the people and the crazy ... it was all starting to make me feel sick. "I'm going to go back to my bunk," I say to Watauga. "Thank you," I say, "for showing me."
Being surrounded by the red ... I think of that wave, that I saw between worlds. I need to see it again. From that place.
Watauga clasps a hand on your shoulder for a moment as you agree. Then walks with you to the hatch until you're safely belowdecks. "Get some rest."
Before long you've removed the breather and find yourself alone in the hall. You know there's crew down here working the engines, but nobody here in the crew quarters. You have the run of the place. For the moment.
What do you do?
It's tempting to poke around, try and learn more about the ship and the crew, but I'm cold and wet and I want to be by myself. If I'm honest with myself, I might be fixating a little bit. I'm seeing red out of the corner of my eyes even when it is just the reassuring grey of the ship.
I wipe off the red with the oil-dipped rags they use for everyday hygiene in lieu of precious clearwater. I stash the mouth filter somewhere unobtrusive in one of the hallways. I don't want to leave it in my room, in case everything gets taken and put in Portar's quarters.
So instead, I shut the door. I lay down on my bedding, and hike my dress up above my waist.
I've only done this before with someone else pushing me higher, between the ground and the air, between my skin and theirs. Between this world and all the worlds I tell stories about. I'm better at pleasing myself, of course, but will I be able to maintain that pleasure while the world is opening up around me?
I'm not sure.
I'm thinking about Dog and that time in the weird guest house in the forest. We haven't talked skins with each other in awhile, I wouldn't miss it if I was sleeping with her in the pile, but right now I feel her absence keenly. The longing threatens to distract me from my intentions. My mind flits briefly to Millions and the last time I reached through the universes, but that thought is soured on the idea of what has happened to him since I last saw him. And then, before I even know it, I'm thinking about SeaTac and his moustachioed face and my back is arching and it's time to push my brain through my skull and into everything, looking for that red wave.
Opening brain and marking exp.
(Rolled: 2d6+1. Rolls: 5, 2. Total: 8)
That 'thum-thrum' sound is everywhere as you pleasure yourself alone below decks. The sound, the vibration of the ship, the leaning this way and that in the blood sea. The creaking of the ship and the calls of men above decks shouting and taking orders.
As you lean back and start to lose yourself you feel the ship turning, leaning to one side as you glide past the docks.
You feel the wave. The great crimson wave rises and strengthens. Courses over sea and land and races inevitably towards the shore.
But this time it's different. You ride the wave, you see the future of blood sea and a sea of blood... suffering like hasn't been seen since the fall, born of generations of hatred and resentment.
As powerful as the wave is, though, it's only made of water... water which can be broken into endless drops and dispersed into rain that will splash against the shore rather than crash. If only something can be done before it grows too strong.
You're the one. Aren't you? You're the only person in this world who knows... this ship. Is it the wave or is only part of it? A harbinger? Either way here you are in the middle of it and perhaps only you can stop it.
You breathe fast and deep, coming down from your high. And you're back in your little metal room. Alone.
What do you so?
Flood.
I clean up, still trembling, and pull my boots back on. Maybe it's time to start working on Glover. If I can't find her, well, if the Captain tells me that I belong in his quarters, now's a good time to start investigating them.
The images plague me.
Sure, water's only wet, but I been soaked before. Gotta take this carefully.
I miss Dog. I miss the Arrows. But I'm on my own for awhile now. Like I used to be.
I can do this.
Ok August. You've got some time on this ship while they head for a place to tender Watauga to shore. Seems like the captain is going to get closer to you. But do you have a plan here or just biding your time?
We can probably skip some time as Watauga gets to shore and finds Bon (or whoever he finds) How much of this time do you want on screen, is the question.
I spend my days making friendships and admirers amongst the mechanics and engineers.
Evenings I continue to perform for the ship as a whole, earn my keep.
When night falls, I entertain the Captain.
August,
So time passes. The ship breaks a brief visit to port and heads into open water. Before long Watauga says his goodbyes and is tendered to a sheltered area a klick or two from SafeCo so he can deliver your message.
You overhear the captain talking, though. If Watauga doesn't make the meetup in three days time he's considered lost. And you don't think he's going to risk any more people on your sisters. Let's hope Watauga is reliable.
Meanwhile:
When you spend time among the crew and try to gain influence roll+hot. On a 10+ pick 3. On 7-9 pick 2. On a miss pick one but someone’s onto your true intentions.
▪ Someone will back you up if it comes to bloodshed, no matter which side you choose.
▪ A person or three will help you to safety at personal risk if violence occurs but won’t fight for you.
▪ A number of the crew will hesitate before acting against or doubting you. Take +1 forward to act against them in any way.
▪ You’ve been provided with protective gear fitted for you.
Let’s hit the dice and see how it goes.
Spending time amidst the crew. Marking exp for hot.
(Rolled: 2d6+3. Rolls: 3, 4. Total: 10)
▪ Someone will back me up if it comes to bloodshed, no matter which side I choose.
▪ A number of the crew will hesitate before acting against or doubting me. Take +1 forward to act against them in any way.
▪ I’ve been provided with protective gear fitted for me.
August,
There's a knock at your door. It's afternoon? So hard to tell. Are you in the captain's quarters or the small room they gave you?
The door opens, it's the mechanic Glover, the girl with the keys to your h-bike, who's been watching you from afar, skittered to approach, but damn if she isn't first in line to sit and listen to your stories.
"August," she says your name for the first time, like it's a treasure. "Cap's decided to dock and raid." She steps into the room, quietly closing the door behind her. It's obvious she shouldn't be here.
What do you do?
I'm in the captain's quarters. Still undressed. Daydreaming to pas the time.
I look at Glover with alarm when she comes into the room, concerned for her safety. My hand instinctively touches the place in my braids where I've knotted the keys for bike, and I think of when she gave them to me that day in the common room when Portar approached me first. Was that a week ago? Two?
Time is a red blur.
I slip out of the sheets to her side, touch her shoulder with my hand. "At what anchorage?" I glance at the small desk Portar works at in the evenings, to see if there is any indication there.
Glover's eyes widen when she sees that you're nude, averts her eyes. It's more of a polite thing, she glances up when you ask her where. "The lighthouse." She answers. Then, she adds, "Caught a signal from them, some chatter between them and the Tax Patrol. They've found an underground bunker or something, lots of supplies. Captain wants it." She swallows, "Captain wants you on the raiding party."
I cock my head to the side, surprised. But also, beneath that, a building drumbeat of excitement. I've been cooped up forever.
"It's almost like a date," I say with restraint.
I point at some of the new clothes the Captain has found for me with one hand, and my new rainproof suit with the other. "What will I wear?"
I'm channeling a voice Char used from the beforetimes when he told petty stories of decadence and waste.
Glover answers after a look at the clothes, "The rainsuit... of course. I mean, we'll drop anchor close and then come in on boats to be quiet. Can you, ah, shoot?" She's standing near the door, hasn't moved into the room. She's completely on edge right now, you see it in her eyes, her posture.
I nod and slip into some underthings, stuff that'll fit under the suit.
"I'm not the best shot, but I probably won't hurt myself. I'm better with knives." I'm thinking this whole thing over. "Any idea why the Captain wanted me there?"
I'm curious about this Lighthouse.
Glover watches you dress, glances and furtive looks. She seems more fascinated by you than attracted to you. She looks at the deck, scratching her left forearm when she answers, "Some of the men think the Captain's growing soft around you. He wants you to, well, make your bones. Fight beside us." She looks back up at you, "Knives are a tough weapon. I. I mostly like guns. You can stay real far back."
I meet her eyes. Voice flat, I say, "Knives are good for deciding exactly how much you're going to hurt someone."
I leave the suit unzipped to the waist for now. Too constricting.
"Lead the way, friend. I'm happy to show the Captain what I'm made of, along with anyone else who cares to find out."
August,
Glover nods, not challenging it. She opens the door and heads into the narrow corridor outside the captain's quarters. "We're gathering at the mess hall to talk it through." She leads you through to the mess hall where you see most of the crew, just a skeleton piloting and watching the outside.
Captain Portar notices when you enter, August, as do others. Watauga's been gone for a while now, but other folks here turn to watch you, notice your gear, and there are a few murmurs. There are a half dozen dressed in protective suits like yours, all standing with masks off, looking much more comfortable in their gear that you feel. They carry weapons, rifles for five, a harpoon gun for the big burly one who doesn't talk. Most of the crew out of outside gear are seated at tables, but attentive.
"August!" Captain Portar calls, stopping whatever he was saying to address you. "I see you got your gear on, that's good. I want you out there when we clear the lighthouse." More murmurs, a few women who pretty much hate you, they do the washing so nobody messes with them, they whisper something back and forth, look with spiteful eyes. Most everyone else is incredulous at this turn.
What do you do?
Something about the scene rubs me the wrong way. Part of this is my fault -- I haven't spent enough time with the washing staff. Mostly because one of them, the one called Magda, reminds me too much of my aunt. She has the crimson eyes, you know, and the cough.
I put my hand on Glover's shoulder, companionably, as she walks into the room. But I stay by the door, leaning back. One leg bent at the knee, boot on the wall. "Captain," I say, acknowledging him.
I don't look at him though, I'm looking at all the gathered faces. "Presumably, there's bounty in the lighthouse." I ask, rolling one of my locks between my palms. "Who defends it?"
August,
"Some fools who work with the Tax Patrol, you know those bastards?" He seems to know them, and hate them, August. He continues, "They've found an underground bunker, a place with lots of food, medical supplies, too. We're hitting them hard and fast, no survivors. We take the supplies and slip back into the sea before the Patrol shows up. There are eight of them, that's all. Easy pickings."
What do you do?
"Tax Patrol is scum," I agree, reaching past the zipper of my suit to palpate the remnants of Queen Anne's tight stitches in my shoulder. It was near enough time to have them removed.
I look forward to seeing how they ride out. I keep picturing a mass of h-bikes, but it must be a boat of some sort. Or do they bring this ship right up to the coast?
The captain nods approval. "Damn right." He looks to the others, even the washing ladies, nobody has a word otherwise, so he continues, "We will arrive at o-four hundred hours, cut engines once we hit a quarter mile from the lighthouse. From there, Glover will take the raiding party in by motorboat, but you'll need to row to keep noise down. The surf isn't that loud. You make your way up the rocks, and I need you to finish any living soul in there, toss their bodies out to the sea. Once you signal us with lights, we will pull in closer and help load up with whatever you find in their bunker." He looks around with an air of authority, "Any questions?"
Not from me. Not with the crowd anyway.
I wait for anyone else to make a query, and when the official part of the meeting ends, I make my way to Portar's side. My hand at the small of his back. "Who leads the raiding party?"
I think about asking him if I can lead it. Would it give more opportunity to mitigate unnecessary carnage? But if I'm ostensibly leading it, there will be too many eyes on me. No way to investigate at all on my own.
Glover will be there. That's a good thing.
Captain Portar looks over at a hulking brute who you've seen at your concerts, but rarely see him working. He looks at you like a piece of meat, like always with those piggish eyes of his. "Cutter leads the raiding party. What he says, goes." Portar looks around, like he answered the question for everyone, but there's something about how he phrased his answer that feels off, August.
Glover says low for you to hear, "I'll be around, too." She's watching Cutter when she says it. She hates that guy, plain and simple.
I nod to Portar, but really, I'm sizing Cutter up. Big guys are the muscle, yeah, but the one in charge too? Not always the best idea.
Reading Cutter.
(Rolled: 2d6. Rolls: 5, 2. Total: 7)
What does Cutter intend to do during this raid?
I put a hand on Glover's shoulder, give a brief squeeze of acknowledgement.
August,
This is Cutter:
Cutter preys on the weak. He plans on hurting the lighthouse people and killing them viciously. He knows Glover doesn't like him, and if he can push her until she says something he can warps into something like disobeying his orders, he's going to choke the life out of her.
Shame someone with a fine beard should have such a poor attitude. If he turns on Glover, I will end him. Flood, I might end him either way.
Still. Does that explain the Captain's tone? Not really.
Attention is back on Portar. "Zip me up?" I ask. Voice a half-purr. "I was thinking about some of the old raids you planned -- do you think it might give us an edge if I came at the Lighthouse from their flank? Because I could slice up there on my bike no problem. Kill the engines on the approach, they'll have no idea what's coming. Think Cutter would go for that?"
Even if he says no, I'm wanna hear more about this headsoaked Cutter.
Captain Portar puts his hands on your back as he slowly zips you up. "No bike. This is where you earn that bike back. The crew still doesn't trust you. Once you make your bones with us, we'll work something out." Then you're zipped and ready like the rest.
"I thought you said I'd well earned my keep," I say, my hands joining at his back, pulling him closer to me. "If you don't think I'd come back for what you're giving me, well, I'm game if you wanna work that out right now." It's a little bold, a little familiar, but they all know I haven't been sleeping in my own bed at night.
I'm not saying it loud, but I'm also not being quiet about it.
His mouth tightens, but you're right there, touching him. It slowly washes away. "If you leave m... if you leave us, you and your sisters will never be welcome back." Then he relents. "I'll tell Cutter."
I lean up, give him a quick peck on the cheek as thanks, moving a little less gracefully than usual because of the suit. Then I just nod, and head towards my bike. It'll be sweet to have her beneath me again. Not quite like being back with Dog and the Arrows, but enough for now.