Scene #6110: A Sacred Opportunity Pt. 2

Owner	Pose
Captain Flint	Flint's Earth Date of Unification: Jul 7, 1715 Date of Events: October 27, 1716 "And God said, 'Let there be light.' And then there was light. And He saw that it was good." Far away from Nassau, a new day dawns on a city of inventors. A despot has been deposed, and the citizens are still ecstatic from the news. An equitable government once more sees the light of day. Plans are underway to resume a contest deferred, a test of intellect versus intellect. While the public exults in their victory, and the eventual Inventor's Fair, the invisible hand of the Concord's First has quietly claimed her long-awaited due. Their stolen power now serves her aims, a covert ploy to tip the scales of a War in her favor. Morgan can see perfectly in the darkness of the Walrus' hold. Sneaking onto the ship was an easy task, especially with his supernatural gifts. No one would have thought to look for a shadow last night, with shadows in such abundance. He can hear in the compartment above shouting and shuffling, like some sort of rehearsal. Alexis Maaka spent the time leading up to the meeting attempting to shed some light on their target. Intel on the colony ships themselves is pretty scarce, because England and France, in most worlds, fought repeatedly for control over St. Vincent. While it's yet to be colonized, England laid claim to it decades ago. The French would therefore be violating both the English claim and that of the native Carib tribe. "And He separated the land from the water, and called the water the Seas. And He said, 'Let the Sea bring forth life abundantly. And He blessed it. And He said that it was good." Josuke's search for souvenirs draws him into a ridiculous argument between an art appraiser and the bearded, grandfatherly Captain Naft. The captain is unable to see why a patently obvious forgery of a painting should be any less valuable than the original, which lies before his very eyes. "'Ess the fuckin' same! Plant, plant," beligerrently observes Naft, gesturing from one to the other. "Fruit, fruit. Tit, tit!" Between the two of them, they can keep him from getting ripped off, once he explains that no, it's not the same... for the third time. Josuke has enough time to pick something up before the meeting starts. "And He formed man of the dust of the ground, and breathed life into his nostrils, and man became a living soul. And He beheld all that He had created, and He said it was very good." Nie Li has, coming from a much more fanciful world, likely not had much experience with the relatively mundane yet. This is a world where only ingenuity and the sweat of one's brow may uplift him, but even then those who would stand are hard pressed to do so against the crushing will of kings. Here, humans fear no monsters or spirits but those of their own making. Li's research into Flint himself is troubling. His men don't seem to trust him--and there has been one recent instance where the promise of advancing his own desires saw him turn on an ally. "But the Lord beheld the man made in His likeness, and he beheld his solitude. And He said, 'It is not good that he is alone.'" George spends the time leading up to the meeting repairing the last bit of damage the Walrus suffered at Staren's hands. Or, to hear certain members of the crew tell it, Flint's hands. Ordinarily they'd be reluctant to talk much, but George working with his hands renders him temporarily beneath notice. So, while he strengthens and reinforces the hull, he's able to pick up scuttlebutt. The veterans have serious misgivings about taking a haul with no immediate monetary value. They've only agreed to it because Flint has promised them an advance on their shares of the Urca gold to compensate. Even so, morale is low--they're really hoping for Flotilla assistance.
Captain Flint	Flint's Earth Date of Unification: Jul 7, 1715 Date of Events: May 1705 The rain trickles down the window of Lord Thomas Hamilton's estate, thunder seeming to punctuate his soliloquy. "And the moral of this story?" asks the lord of his guest. Turning to face Lieutenant McGraw, he smiles upon finding an attentive listener in the officer. "Everybody needs a partner," Hamilton explains. McGraw chuckles. "You were the partner assigned to me, in response to my father's request, by the Admiralty," says Hamilton, leaning upon his desk with both hands. "Yet it appears that even you believe this endeavor is doomed to fail." Hamilton takes a seat at his desk, studying McGraw. "Well, sir," says McGraw, seafoam eyes briefly darting upwards as he remembers a rehearsed answer. "The pirate issue is a thorny one, but I believe there are ways to..." "The root causes are the ones that I would like to address first. The graft of its governor," says Hamilton. "The incompetence of its managers. The neglect of its laws. The instability caused by these things is what draws the pirates to Nassau, not the other way around. So, let's begin there. What is it that you believe would return Nassau to stable profitability?" McGraw squints. "You mean aside from removing the pirates." Slightly annoyed, Hamilton continues. "Let's leave them out for now, yes." The lieutenant gives a sigh and ponders the question. "What would it take... farmers," he begins. "To grow sugar and tobacco. Magistrates to maintain order, carpenters to raise buildings, clergy to raise spirits. Foodstuffs to sustain them all for six months, perhaps a year... /three ships/ to transport it all, sailors to sail them. And an /honest governor,/" says the officer with a sarcastic bob of his head. "The first, in recent memory, to oversee it all." He smirks, shaking his head as another thought strikes him. "In short," he says between laughter, "You'd be assembling a colony. Boarding it onto ships," continues the officer. "Transporting it across the Atlantic, and hoping that when it arrives, it takes to an environment that has resisted every attempt at stable commerce for the past fifty years." Hamilton's smile is visible, try as he might to hide it behind his hand. "Oh and then there are the... pirates, that... we've agreed not to discuss," curtly adds the lieutenant with a grin. It is Hamilton's turn to grin. For in spite of those odds, he still poses a question. "Are you sure three ships would be enough?" McGraw scoffs as if he'd just heard a mildly amusing joke. "My lord... I must be honest with you. I have grave doubts about whether something like this is realistic." "Yes, I've gathered that." Hamilton's expression is unchanged. A confident smile. "The New World is a gift, Lieutenant. A sacred opportunity to right our wrongs and begin anew. I do not want my family's plot in it to be the reason for its fall." He rises from his desk at last, and circles around to the front of it, standing within the lieutenant's personal space. "I'm not looking for someone to hold my hand. I need someone that can help me ensure that Nassau survives. The stakes are too great for anything else." McGraw's gaze turns away from Hamilton. He shakes his head. "And you think that I'm that person? Despite the fact that we both view the world very differently?" "/Because/ of it," states Hamilton, his grey eyes alight with zeal. "Strange pairs, Lieutenant. They can achieve the most... unexpected things."
Captain Flint	October 27, 1716 "They're here," Silver states to Flint, holding the door of the captain's cabin open. The captain gives him a nod and rises from his desk, welcoming his guests (at least, those he's aware of). Morgan won't be able to hear the meeting from his position in the hold, but getting closer would mean somehow avoiding Flint's men in daylight. The shuffling of feet above him has stopped, as has the seemingly rehearsed shouting. Everyone invited knows the target: three French colony ships, well-armed and well-crewed with seasoned soldiers. How will the invitees be arriving at the captain's cabin, and what do they have to say?
Alexis Maaka	Maaka's got a pretty nice hat on right now, it goes well with the boots and her coat. She's got a collection of documents and maps that she lays out on a table, with information gathered while she stuck around. "Did some digging on our targets." She explains without wasting her time waiting, revealing her map to be of St. Vincent. "The French are making a move to snatch territory the English already laid claim to decades ago. I'm thinking this might lead to the French seen as carrying out an act of war."
Morgan Berselius	It's not the first time that Morgan has had to sneak through a bevy of potential hostiles. Sure, it IS the first time in a long time that he's needed to do so while also in a sailing vessel. He can /probably/ fly his way back home if the worst comes to pass, but getting wet is a terrible inconvenience overall. Also uh. He truthfully has no idea which way home /is./ But hey, you know, whatever. That's only if he gets caught. And so with the hubbub coming to an abrupt halt above him, Morgan presses his hand to the surrounding darkness and extends his awareness... Upwards. It might not give him that much information, but being able to peer through nearby shadows might just give him enough to know when to slip by, and to learn what might be obstructing his immediate ingress. And if those somethings just happen to be, for example, watchful (or even just sort of bored) sailors, Morgan would begin making use of his other talents. Specifically, sleep-inducing magic.
Josuke Higashikata	Josuke didn't know what he expected, trying to legitimately BUY something in a pirate town. At least he got the souvenir he was looking for. Jotaro will likely appreciate it, seeing as how it's an AUTHENTIC piece of nautical history from, if not his own world, from a similar enough world. Fortunately he's gotten less reluctant to show his abilities -- unfortunately that could be due to possibly having had to punch his way out of a conflict since he's dressed like a rich Victorian man at the moment; he'd been trying to blend in as far as his attire goes, and that might have drawn thugs to him with intention of stealing from him. But yes. Being less reluctant to show his abilities means that he could have merely had his Stand, Crazy Diamond, throw him back on board the ship if it was necessary. If not, well. Gangplanks are a thing! History is, sadly, not Josuke's strong suit. So he isn't sure of much beyond 'this thing that should be happening later is happening now'. Also that the French are horrible during this period of history, and giving them a kick in the balls is probably doing everyone NOT the French a favor. Also regarding Maaka's mention of a possible war between the French and English, he asks, "Did that ever happen historically during this period in other worlds?"
Nie Li	Nie Li's studies of this world have turned up a lot of troubling information. A low tech level that doesn't depend on spiritual energies. Instead people make gears and gunpowder! A land where the biggest thing humanity has to fear is other humans and there's no rising above it all. It's a downright ghastly and bleak world that this ally of the Concord hails from. One of questionable worth. From the sound of it, the only good thing it produces is food, and he has plenty of that! Nevertheless, the Concord is interested in this Captain Flint's plight and goals. Why? It's time to find out. He arrives in the cabin dressed like he usually is, and it's immediately apparent that he's... A kid. Yeah. He's probably shorter than everyone else who shows up. Definitely anyone else who's HUMAN that shows up. But looking into his eyes... it's hard to tell if this is really a kid or not. There's something far too mature in them, even if they are full of youthful enthusiasm all the same. "Greetings. Nie Li, Partner of the Concord, and Demon Spiritualist. Hopefully I have the right place." And the place is ABOARD A SHIP. That's a novelty! he had to take a rowboat out to it. How novel! But the boy does seem to favor leaning against a wall. This might be his first time aboard a ship and every so often he does seem concerned by the rocking of the waves. Hopefully this youth gains his sea legs quickly, huh? "I'm aware of the general situation. Going over it again to make sure everyone is on the same page and knows our available options couldn't hurt, though."
Priscilla	Priscilla doesn't show up to these kinds of things before she is exactly on time. There were days where she would linger hours or days in advance, observing and trying to learn whatever there was to observe and learn, but those are long past, and it's not solely for being important now. 'The First of the Concord' might be a fitting reason to only appear at the exact tolling of the bell, but it is a coincidental expectation --happenstance convergent with a more gradual shift in bearing and of motive. There is a certain statement to be made by simply appearing on the deck, after all. Even if these are an ally's men, it has frequently done her well for Priscilla to occasionally remind them that he works for someone much further above them. She has long had a reasonable idea of the game Flint plays with his crew, and it'd be a lie to say that she hasn't nudged the pieces from time to time. The sailors aboard the Walrus have to just deal with the fact that the boss's boss can Show Up like this, already too late to do anything about by the time they feel the chill. It might do well to keep them on their toes around meeting times. "And how dost thou anticipate the act of aggression itself to influence things? If the French and the English art to go to war, then what?" Priscilla prompts. "In any way that pertains to Nassau, mind thee. Perhaps an increase in naval traffic along their lanes, but also vastly better armed and crewed; less than ideal for freebooting. French ships disappearing along the way woulds be . . . a matter of how it is attributed." She looks to Flint, not actually approaching any maps or documents, already standing out far too much to huddle at a table. "What is it that these vessels carry that is of such import to Nassau, Captain Flint? I can imagine that there art better ways and softer targets for thine particular method of acquisition, gold notwithstanding." It is the usual thing she pushes. 'Why is this necessary, and how do you justify it' are the opening pressure at every planning session, hinging an operation's survival past the drawing board based on its satisfactory answer. It's a question she believes appropriate to be answered under all circumstances. It doesn't help that her finally stepping fully into the captain's cabin causes the candles to gutter and the shadows to warp, until she has to duck a beam for being easily the tallest one around.
Starbound Flotilla	"Might be a good idea to make a bigger show of support." "You're asking for a /show/? I thought I'd never see the day." "We're not performers, George." "No, but this is a beefy target either way, we gotta take it seriously." "Floran doesssn't oppossse bigger ssstabbing." "Uneasy. What kind of hardware are you wanting to bring out?" "Not like the Starstriders are gonna be much use on open seas." "We'll figure it out. Just want to be there to support them some more." "You 'support' anything?" "Fuck off, furball, I'm being serious." "I think there are some options we can explore." "I'll put a little more on the line if you want." "Floran sssupport!" "Hmph. I don't like your motive, but bigger guns are better." George is, as always, the main representation of the Flotilla here today. He's tense enough to already be smoking the moment he gets into the cabin, and fills it with more of that scent of hospital. "Got good clearance from a friend to promise you better support, whatever you're going to need. We'll take this heavier." He takes a long drag of the cigarette before he moves on. "Well, if Maaka is right, then there's a few ways we have to spin this. We're gonna be using those supplies for Nassau, but we might have political options with the britbongs. Honestly I dunno what they are, but there might be. Could keep baguette heat off us after we run it, we gotta make sure we know how to keep what we take." "Sinking those things isn't a good idea, and we don't have a ton of sea power ourselves relative to three colony ships. I'm thinking a heavy defensive run to keep afloat, and a focus on getting boots on the planks. Plays to our on-foot strengths and will keep those supplies working for us instead of feeding fish, right? I mean I'm a fan of feeding fish, but that's a bit much for me. A hijack's the best case, but veteran soldiers aren't good to assume that for." He scratches his head, glancing to Josuke. "Something like that, I think I heard, but too early. These guys know more, they've been keeping way up on the history around here." He says, nodding around. "Probably a good idea to set things a bit more on-track to keep the advantage in punching up the timeline. Knowing how things shake out is better for our side than theirs in the end."
Captain Flint	Morgan can see a sort of patchwork through the slats of the planks above him, diminished somewhat by light creeping in from the maindeck or the rare lit lantern. From what he can see, the deck above is mostly empty. There are a few pirates sleeping, owing to night shifts, or hangovers. Seems like most of the chores on the gun deck have been taken care of, so his path there is going to be pretty easy. Hiding behind a barrel of powder or cannon should also be fairly easy. It's hard to tell how difficult it would be to eavesdrop from there, however--there aren't many shadows on the ceiling of the gun deck. He can make it to the gun deck by use of the stairs, with no need to go abovedeck or anything convoluted. If he heads all the way to the aft end, he can start picking things up from the meeting. There doesn't appear to be a need for sleep spells. Yet. Flint is seated at his desk, with maps held in place by various personal effects: paperweights, an inkwell, navigational instruments. Behind him, the light of the afternoon sun shines in from reinforced windows, giving those gathered a peek at a few other ships moored in the bay. Maaka's news sets the captain's brow to furrowing. "Bold of them," rumbles the captain in his gravelly English baritone. "They're not two years out of the war of succession." Silver steps fully inside of the cabin, letting the door close behind him. The metal 'foot' of his primitive 18th century prosthesis raps against the floorboards with each step. "Maybe they know England doesn't have the money to back up their claim. Spies?" asks the quartermaster, leaning upon a sturdy, unevenly carved wooden cane. "It'd have to be damn good intel to have them acting a full three years earlier than they have in most other worlds." Flint taps a hand bearing two ornate rings upon an open history book. His seafoam eyes flick briefly to the cabin's tall, well-stocked bookcase, and several empty spots therein. Josuke does indeed have one (1) instance of trouble. After Naft and Frasier help him avoid getting ripped off, he is the target of a would-be mugger. 'Would-be' is the operative term because some people aren't used to having their faces rearranged by psychic Japanese brain ghosts. His arrival at the beach is thereafter wholly interrupted, and he may assume by amazed expressions in the crowd (many of whom cannot see said brain ghosts) that he is guaranteed a wide berth for the foreseeable future. Josuke's question, then, is easily answered by the well-read captain. "No," says Flint with certainty. "Not with any regularity. At least, not outright war. Altogether more common are... skirmishes. The island tends to change hands between both nations, with the native Carib tribe caught in the middle. Both of them want it for the arable land. Coffee, tobacco, corn, sugar." With a meaningful look at the Australian in the room, he adds, "Indigo, for textiles."
Captain Flint	"Welcome aboard, Mr. Nie," says the captain. He nods at the young spiritualist's suggestion, and rises from his seat. Leaning forward, he rests both hands upon his desk. "The situation, then. The French aim to colonize St. Vincent. That I even know this at all is likely because an English spy let it slip to Nassau in the hopes we might save it the trouble of defending its claim." He pauses, and when next he speaks, there is a certain gravity in his voice. "Three ships. Well-armed, well-crewed, with complements of seasoned soldiers. I want what's on those ships--supplies to start a colony. I want it for Nassau." Flint lets that sink in, then rises, standing up straight. Priscilla's arrival is met with alarm, at first. The skeleton crew on board the ship has a few new faces, and it falls to the veterans to keep them from doing something stupid. Ironically enough, it is Turk, the loud-mouthed conspiracy theorist, who reigns the new blood in. He still remembers the broken nose the captain's ringed fist gave him. Even as she makes her way to the cabin, Turk is murmuring rumors about how she can turn men to ash simply by looking at them. She enters in time to hear Flint's response to Nie Li, and the captain nods. "Colonies are expensive things, in our world. Nassau has existed for fifty years, and still represents a net loss for England--though there are certain mitigating factors," says the pirate captain on a pirate ship surrounded by pirates. "The supplies to make one are worth their weight in gold, owing to the sheer difficulty of safely transporting them across the Atlantic. The French would be taking most of the risk for us. Moreover, they won't go to war." John Silver scoffs. "That's awfully convenient for you, isn't it? How do you know that?" "They've just gotten out of one. England has, as well. After fifteen years of fighting, they'll not want to start another. And they won't be expecting a call to their bluff." George's suggestions give the captain pause. He brings a hand up to stroke at his goatee, pacing back and forth behind his desk. "Boarding... would be a sound strategy. We'd just need some way to frustrate their broadsides. Keep them from breaking the ship apart between them." He gives Josuke a meaningful look, pondering the possibility of the supplies being destroyed. "Mr. Higashikata. If the French chose to destroy the supplies, how can we make the task of repairing them easier for you? I assume you'd need cover--but is there anything else?" Silver interjects. "What did you mean about 'political solutions,' George?" Priscilla in particular might take notice of that. It's far from the self-preservationist little shit he was a year ago. He almost seems fit for the role of quartermaster.
Nie Li	Nie Li is quiet for a while as he mulls over all the information he read about this world. Especially seafaring, as it seems to be the biggest factor that connects the nations in the locale the Concord operates in. It bothers him that these foreign nations haven't done more with the Multiverse to take advantage of the situation. He can only assume they're run by idiots who are afraid of new ideas, maybe! "The supplies to make a colony. What would that be? Money? Building materials? Food? These things are common as dirt in other worlds. My homeland, for instance, has more food than it knows what to do with!" That's not an exaggeration either, but he will refrain from adding that it's about the ONLY thing his home territory has going for it. "But if these French arrive with said supplies and try to dominate the territory, it'll be a problem." Hearing that both nations just got done with war, his forehead furrows. He's operating in very odd territory here. "They will not go to war. You're probably right. The vast Atlantic is your best ally in this, since it takes forever for news to travel back to Europe by very expensive and risky boat travel. However, there's still spies, assassins, and sabotage. Not going to war doesn't mean they won't find a way to do SOMETHING, does it?" He folds his arms over his chest. "Information is key here. What are your aims for the crew of those ships? What will you do with any who surrender? If the ships are simply raided, when they don't return they will assume that the ships were lost to either a storm or sabotage and send someone to investigate, won't they?"
Josuke Higashikata	"It'd be easy for them to just pop out to a world that's like theirs but more advanced, and just look all this stuff up in a history book," Josuke points out. "If Maaka could find out this stuff, they probably wouldn't have too much trouble doing the same. Maybe they know things now that they wouldn't have historically, and they're confident they can do this earlier than they're supposed to." As for the question of restoring destroyed supplies? "Cover, like you said, for one," he replies. "Not just to keep me from getting hit. But if I get too distracted, it'll ruin the job and somebody will have to re-break it so I can try again. The rest is just making sure nobody tries to grab the pieces and take them away. It's easier if they're in the same area, but not completely necessary. Probably best to keep them in a small area, otherwise covering for me long enough to get everything back together might take too long."
Morgan Berselius	Well. That's convenient. Now all he has to do is get to where he needs to be. Morgan closes his eyes in brief concentration, his corporeal form seeming to... dissolve. It unwinds, transforming into a cloud of murky shadow-stuff that pours upwards through the pinhole he was using to keep watch. He creeps across the floor in much the same way, moving not as a man with two legs which could disturb the nearby sleepers with creaks or squeaks of swollen lumber, but rather as a shadow sliding silently across the floor. Following the muffled sound of conversation, he glides toward the far aft end of the gun deck and ducks behind a barrel full of powder and quietly turns an ear toward the words coming from the other side of the wall. As for the subject of the conversation... ...Supplies? Is that really all that those ships are carrying? After all, Morgan /saw/ the slave markets on Nassau. Those 'French' vessels couldn't just be carrying supplies without anyone to make use of them, right...?
Priscilla	Turk is well-advised. When Flint had punched him in the face, he'd certainly saved the man from something worse. It'd been a while since then. Priscilla is certainly able to do something close by now. "The captain seeks to erect an independent colony. The French hath supposedly sent a fleet entirely designed for the purpose of achieving that precise thing themselves. The means specifically and entirely tailored to do what Captain Flint desires hath been gathered together and been set to sea, whereupon it takest vastly less effort to simply sieze it than go about the founding process with one's own limited time and men and finances of equally limited skill and means. There is a pragmatic purpose to taking possession of such; regardless of how affordable thou believest doing so wouldst be otherwise, affordable is costlier than free." "Whilst petty on its face, and possibly best left simply to the experts at piracy, there is very much the matter of the war. The ships carry great international significance, with stake in a war that wouldst very severely affect the fortunes of Nassau. Such must be handled in a delicate and specified way, and without fail; a strong hand that asserts a stronger pull than either nation without tipping the scales fully into war is needed." She then stares dead on at Flint, once again forcing him to look her in those barely 'human' eyes. "So I wouldst question what guarantee thou hast, other than faith in the odds. A calculated gamble is a gamble still. A tenth of the possibility of an outcome a hundred times worse than the alternative is one passed over by the wise. The Concord shalt not commit its resources to resolving such a war, shouldst it cometh to it, thou understandeth. There is a limit to how much thou may ask for on credit alone."
Starbound Flotilla	George lets out a stream of smoke. "Frustrate the broadsides... Huh. Top-deck broadsides are tough ones, too open for any of our usual solutions. With the beefed up hull, maybe if I could get in close and use some refitted hullfoam grenades, I could clog up lower deck guns. Wouldn't last forever, but it might get us enough time to surge in if we moved fast." He paces a little around the room in a thoughtful and slightly agitated way. "Great White's got a point, we should play more than odds. With the Spanish, we tried out faking who we were, but that wasn't the best way to approach, I'll be first to admit mostly 'cause Pavo won't. The way I see it, if pretending we're someone else isn't a good way to go, best way to angle it may be something else." He stops, moving his cigarette in his hands like a conductor. "The English don't have the cash to stake their claim, the French would have trouble admitting they're there -- we poison the well a little, tell people we got these raiding English colony ships instead, and try to find a good way of proving it. The English won't wanna lose face, the French won't want to own up, but nobody who could take a shot would be able to afford to, and even secrecy wouldn't really work very well, because conflicting stories would be pretty expected in a situation like that." He puts out the stub of a cigarette and leans forward more. "Pirates crews are -- no offense -- not great at keeping secrets. So best bet here is to tell a lie that people will /want/ told first, and one that keeps them off our back. How's that sound to you?"
Alexis Maaka	"Yeah, that's the thing that confuses me." Maaka says. "Who'd do this so soon after a war that's bled you this much? Makes me wonder if they're crazy, or if they just got an advantage on the English. Either way, we're looking at a possible power play." She glances to the bookshelf Silver is looking at, folding her arms curiously.
Captain Flint	Silver is the first to speak up when George gives his idea. "I can sell that," says the quartermaster, stepping forward with a gleam in his eye. "By this time tomorrow the whole town'll know about it, and I'll make sure they're pissed about it. Guthrie'll tell her father, and he'll tell Whitehall. Just need to make the rounds--still haven't met with the new gun captain yet." Flint nods. "Do it," he says. "As for your tactic, George, it's sound. With luck it won't be necessary. The final detail is where the fight shall occur, if it's unavoidable. They'll likely toss the cargo--slaves and supplies alike--if we engage them in a running battle at sea. Boarding them would only stop as many vessels as we could board, and then only after we forced them to stop. If we want to board, I'd suggest doing so after they've made landfall. They'd not so easily frustrate Mr. Higashikata's efforts, there. Accordingly, the Maaka and the vanguard would face only skeleton crews, and controlling the ships early on would deprive them of their broadsides." Silver leaves the room, and the captain pauses. "Assuming they aren't shocked into surrender by the arrival of British ships they've been made to believe in." Nie Li asks what goes onto a colony ship, and Flint answers him, confirming Morgan's suspicions as well. "Building supplies, laborers and slaves to use them, foodstuffs to sustain them. These days, I'd not be surprised to count weapons among them," says Flint in response to Nie Li. "Everyone's still uneasy after the War of Succession. If we were to take the supplies successfully, we'd leave any who surrendered alive. I'd personally prefer to see the slaves freed, as well. They'd sail back to France and inform them of what happened. Otherwise, yes, France would investigate. If you knew of a world that could provide supplies to Nassau easily and discreetly, I'd not turn their offer down, made fairly. The problem, as Priscilla says, is the cost. I'd much rather have them for free, especially since France has done so much of the work already. There is, admittedly, also the matter of France's sudden, uncharacteristic interest in the island. I'll not be caught unaware of some strategic advantage they've gained by securing it. Even if we can't secure the supplies, I'd not leave St. Vincent without being certain of the reason for their interest in it." "If, as Mr. Higashikata says, they merely have advance knowledge, then it means only that I'm no longer the only power using that tactic and should adjust my strategy accordingly." He frowns slightly, shrugging his shoulders. "But I'd much rather find that out than merely assume it to be so."
Captain Flint	Priscilla, as always, is talking sense. Flint gives her a frown of concession, gesturing towards the First with a hand, his rings glinting in the sunlight and momentarily disrupting Morgan's shadow-vision with their reflections. "You want to know what the consequences would be." The captain sighs, knowing her well enough to know he can't just 'trust me' his way out of things with her. He learned that in Garit. "England's enemies have razed Nassau twice in the past. The Spanish, in particular, with such savagery that an unspoken rule never to raid their ships has since existed." Of particular note, but noted verbally by neither Flint nor Silver is that the extremely profitable Urca de Lima, from which the captain derives his wealth, from which he hopes to make a treasury for Nassau, was a Spanish ship. "I don't have a guarantee this wouldn't cause a war. If it would satisfy the Concord, I could take Mr. Nie's offer of resources, make up the cost through repeated operations and find some way to have skilled labor here ready to work should the time come. But if you want to talk gambles--an enemy of England, potentially having a foothold in the region, with an unknown strategic advantage? That is a gamble I cannot afford to take. And if you want the Concord to have a foothold here--a stake in Nassau's future--it's not one you can afford, either. Maaka is right. Supplies or no, fight or no, we /must/ at least investigate." Flint's bookshelf is decidedly anachronistic, Maaka will find. Alongside Marcus Aurelius, Paradise Lost and Don Quixote are the works of Baudrillard, Zizek and Bookchin. Resting securely behind the books are the vividly illustrated sleeves of vinyl records. The only one visible is from the top half up, an illustration of a wildly terrified pair of eyes set in an exaggerated, screaming face. There is no otherwise visible information as to the name of the artist, unless she is familiar with the album cover. Morgan's eavesdropping is interrupted by the creaking of stairs at the fore end of the gun deck. The steps are off-kilter, implying the person descending them is making use of a prosthetic or cane. "Mr. Everett," calls John Silver. "A word?"
Priscilla	As always the tension between Priscilla asking the question and deciding on whether the answer is satisfactory enough to hold up is not so much 'thick enough to cut with a knife' as it is the kind that comes from trying to walk across a frozen lake that keeps creaking in alarming ways. Being poor at expressiveness means a chilling poker face, at the very least. Flint holds up for now, she seems to have decided, folding her arms and moving close enough to at least look at the map over someone's shoulder. "The ships shalt come under attack in the midst of a winter storm. Driving hail and snow shalt severely impede their visibility. Ice shalt cling to their rudders and drag their hulls, and frost shalt beset their powder and chains." She insists on this quite clearly and adamantly, despite the fact that she knows perfectly well that kind of thing is completely impossible in this part of the world. "The sea shalt not be so kind as to alloweth them to simply escape into it, or surrender their goods to it, for some time."
Nie Li	"A long term for food is something I don't have the authority to do off-handedly. I'm not the City Lord for Glory City." Yet. He might be one day, though! The boy shakes his head a bit. "Much as I'd like to, I only have what I have on me for now. However, if you're interested in this idea, we should meet later on it and discuss strategies for ways to grow your economy and trade for dirt cheap prices! The Multiverse has a lot of opportunities." He... might know a few things about that. He might. "In fact, I see plenty of problems with maintaining independence in the long term." He takes a few moments to go over the ideas spouted so far and then... "The easiest way to do this would be to wait until they make landfall, and launch an unconventional raid to cripple their control over the ships. Strand them ashore. Then it would be easy to deal with anyone who puts up a fight on shore. This method risks the least damage to your ships and probably the least casualties on all sides."
Josuke Higashikata	"If you're really going to set up a colony yourself, freeing those slaves from the ships would probably serve you pretty well," Josuke notes. "Given I'm sure most of them just want a place to live, you might have your labor right there. I'm not sure about skilled labor, but I'm sure they can learn if it comes to that. Or if it comes to it, finding people from other worlds who want to leave theirs and would want a chance to resettle -- I'm sure there's a handful of ruined worlds that the people in them would be willing to leave, if they had the chance to just live peacefully." Of course, that's reason enough right there for Josuke to want to do this -- freeing slaves. Idealism hasn't quite been beaten out of him yet, so he's still very much of the 'slavery is wrong' opinion. Mind, he's smart enough to know just breaking everybody's chains and proclaiming 'go be free' is a really bad idea, of course, which keeps him from being stupid about it. Anyway, yes. The plan seems like a good one. "We'll need to break up into two teams, then," he suggests. "Some of us need to keep the crew from running back to the ships again, and some of us need to deal with the ships. With a skeleton crew on the ships, disabling their cannons shouldn't be hard. I mean, if it's still needed while they're on land. I don't know if they'd risk hitting their own men to attack our land team." He also doesn't know much about ships, to note. And yet again he wishes he could tear Jotaro away from Speedwagon Foundation business to come and help with this. Jotaro would probably enjoy it too... almost like a vacation. With punching.
Alexis Maaka	Maaka nods, just as she sees a vinyl. She might have a t-shirt with that exact art back home. Appreciating Flint's taste in music and literature done with, the cyborg narrows her eyes and glances at the map. "So what about the crewmen themselves? I've no doubt your men have experience in this sort of thing, but will we be dealing with men expecting offworlders? I saw some weirdos back at Nassau, not for nothin'. It'd be ridiculous if the French DIDN'T have some of that multiverse muscle on their side by now, depending on how long you've been unified." She remarks pointedly. The slaves draw a raised eyebrow. She isn't sure if Flint's doing this out of the goodness of his black heart, or if he's on a recruitment drive. Either way, she remains silent on that one for the moment. Not the mission after all.
Priscilla	"If they dost than they shalt maketh some sport out of this." Priscilla proclaims, almost idly. "Trained soldiers art seldome to be underestimated by any of intelligence, but I expecteth enough of thou here as to knoweth what to do whence else reads its head."
Morgan Berselius	So. There are slaves, then. Morgan whispers a curse-- of course there are. This is, after all, a place where such a thing is common. Slavery is just... what is /done/ here. But that doesn't mean the bile doesn't quickly begin to rise in his throat. Even so, this vessel's captain is of at least some mind to free those slaves. But to what end? Will they just be made to work in someone else's thrall? Something worse? To allow it to go to chance is... Not exactly feasible. But Morgan doesn't have long to consider the possibilities. Something creaks at the far end of the vessel. Someone is coming-- one leg false, the other... Hm. No, it doesn't matter much. He's made up his mind. One way or another, this is going to be a hell of a thing. Might as well have some fun while he's at it. Morgan reaches out, his divinity flaring, darkness rushing out from behind the barrel of gunpowder. Silver would see it clearly, the way the light just gets /swallowed up/ by the wave of liquid night flowing in a great tide from the far end of the corridor. He'd notice just briefly an ominous pair of eyes aglow in the dark over a jeering grin-- before the whole thing abruptly surges upward...! Right into where the captain is meeting!! Of course, Morgan doesn't make such an extravagent entrance. That wouldn't do at all. Instead, as the murk flows up and into the meeting room, they condense and coalesce, bleeding up into the captain's shadow... And then along the wall. "Well Captain, it sounds like you could use a hand," Morgan says as he steps out from the murk, materializing from the shadow-stuff one limb at a time. "Or maybe not, considering everyone else here," the apparent youth adjusts his scarf and peers around the room, his gaze settling on Priscilla for... More than just a little bit. "But if you want to do this nice and clean-like, I think my talents could be pretty useful. S' long as you guarantee me a few conditions." Who the heck is this kid? Well, he should be familiar to at least a /few/ people here, right? "So, what do you say?" Morgan smiles, "Wanna hear me out?"
Starbound Flotilla	"Landfall, huh? We can work more there. Get a fast pre-fab airbase set in time, and I bet we might even have a gunship on the skies for some support in case of disaster before they can angle those cannons up. Not a fan of how many shots they'll be able to put up from the decks though. We'll have to time a hit." George thinks, pacing a little bit. "If I can get just a launchpad and a monitoring post constructed there before they hit the shore, it'll give us enough to hit them all at once." A quick glance to Priscilla and a short sort of grin indicates his confidence here. "As long as /their/ launch time is long enough, ours being short enough gives us enough edge to take this." He shakes his head at Nie Li though. "Can't cripple 'em, easiest way to do this is to try to hijack them, or at least some of them." He grins and points at bit at Josuke. "I like the idea there. You might be able to whip them into more of a vengeful feeling, if they know Nassau's the world's bloody nose to the heavy hitters of the Atlantic. As for splitting up, I think we'll do a little better out in the open. If we can pull together a solid battle-wagon for air or land support, it'll play to our strengths, and give your honest sailors -- or whatever's close enough to an honest sailor that you've got -- the space they need to run the boats." He's already got ideas on the brain for the Flotilla's chosen Big Display of Support to assuage some of those crewmen.
Captain Flint	Flint summarizes the Plan. "A sudden winter storm will pick up off the coast of St. Vincent just as the ships begin unloading crew and supplies. We'll make our approach under cover of the storm, as will an aircraft from a platform constructed in advance by the Flotilla. George will use bullfoam grenades to gum up the teeth of their starboard broadside, and the boarding will begin. The vanguard will move from ship to ship, clearing the skeleton crew until we control all three. A separate team will frustrate any effort to retake the ship until we gain control of the port broadsides. At that point, the teams will reconverge on board the ships. We'll use the port broadsides to bombard the beach, and thereafter sweep the interior until there's a rout or a surrender. From there, Mr. Higashikata will begin recovering any supplies damaged by the 'storm' or the French. I'll then take on as many slaves seeking better lives as the Walrus can carry, be it as part of her crew or elsewhere. But be warned. This advantage the French feel they have may indeed be due to Multiversal forces or arms. Even if it isn't, don't underestimate them." This note about being prepared for weird Multiverse shit could not be better timed, as there is suddenly a paladin in the cabin. "Mr. Berselius," says the captain sedately. "From the tavern, as I recall. I would /strongly/ caution you from making such an entrance around strangers." His hand is lifted upwards, palm out. It is facing both his guests, and his quartermaster, who hurriedly limps into the room with a pistol drawn perhaps thirty seconds later. He's gotten faster, but he's still getting used to moving with one leg. "You can't be certain how they might react." The captain's full attention is on the paladin. "I'll hear your terms, and I will entertain them fairly." He turns, bending over slightly to look him in the eye. His hand is warm on the paladin's shoulder--but his eyes are as cold as ice. "You, in turn, will understand that, here, in this place, your youth is not a guarantee for your well-being." His hand squeezes. In any other conversation it would be a paternal gesture but here, it is all wrong. It is dark. It is furious. His eyes lock onto Morgan's like pokers spearing smoldering logs. Those seafoam pools seem to glow with nearly that same intensity. "Here... in this place... men are beaten for less than what you've done. And on this ship, you are a man."
Josuke Higashikata	And suddenly Morgan does his appearing act! "WHOA!" Josuke yelps, stepping away from the area. The shadows and the way they group is immediately familiar, though, and because of that, he doesn't move to attack. "Sheesh... yeah, definitely want to be ready for Multiversal interference..." he mutters. Though Josuke's not altogether unaware of the factional thing, and though he doesn't really know -- or care, truth be told -- what faction everyone belongs to, he does edge towards Morgan's side, in an attempt to be on hand if someone else does something to hurt him.
Alexis Maaka	Maaka throws open her coat, and suddenly a revolver enters her hand. She takes aim at Morgan's head with the .460 magnum, hammer cocked threateningly before suddenly Flint speaks. "You REALLY shouldn't fucking do that, kid." She admonishes Morgan pointedly, lowering the gun slowly.
Nie Li	The moment SHADOWS begin doing things they shouldn't and Nie Li picks up on the spiritual energies at work, his expression darkens and he subtly merges with the Shadow Devil Demon Spirit. This has the effect of making his entire color palette a hair darker - almost unnoticeable - and for his very human blue eyes to become featureless black irises. The shadows around him deepen just a tad. But when the coaelscing energies result in just someone else talking, he simply sourfaces at the intruder. "You are lucky someone didn't stab you for that entrance. Use the door next time, and announce yourself. Now that you're here though--" He's just about to demand an introduction, but it seems that the Captain recognizes this man... The transformation is undone as subtly as it emerged in the first place. He once again folds his arms while regarding the Captain's plans. "It sounds like a solid plan. I can help with seizing the ships, but I don't know a thing about sailing them."
Starbound Flotilla	George, for some reason, compulsively brings a fresh cigarette to his mouth when Morgan emerges. Why is the cigarette important? Well, it seems to be prioritized just about as much as the pistol he's drawn and leveled at the sudden entrance, loaded, cocked, and ready to fire. Thankfully, that's hardly a necessity, from what it seems. "You know, common sense says men gotta be given some private space on a boat. Can't go skulking around like that. You'll hear /gross things/." He jokes, keeping it trained on the Raven Knight until it's more clear that things are going to be okay. Then it's just sort of slung to one side, still loaded and ready to fire. "I'm not a fan of 'nice', and 'clean' usually means bastard janitorial nonsense, but hey, fire that offer and I'm sure the captain here can handle it." He keeps the gun ready, but sort of leans back against one of those walls, a mix of paranoid readiness to shoot and a relaxed, almost sleepy mood.
Priscilla	Priscilla hears out the plan, as it is, composite and volunteered, but adeptly threaded together by the Captain into an agreeable outline of decisive action. She is not the type to nod along or make visible signs of approval, such that her complete lack of change in posture or expression is enough to intuit that she is happy enough with it, by an interpretation of the word. What she is not happy with is dramatic entrances. Flashy, showy, imposing, and irreverent, given with the cocksure aura of someone excessively secure in their power. She will not tolerate those in her presence, on her territory, from someone who doesn't explicitly work for her. This ship, even though it may be Flints, is also hers by virtue of her being here. She is not charmed by the roguish disregard for ceremony nor impressed by the implication of adept eavesdropping. It is the insult of a wolf straying over the borders of a tiger's territory, and more importantly, the kind of surprise that one who has survived Lordran has long ago learned not to freeze up in the face of. Freeze up. That's what the cabin does. Priscilla's posture is rigid, her face glacial, even her tail having gone completely still, so it is as if her scorn is vented and diffused into the air around her like the blast escaping a hollow bombshell. A tremendous, instantaneous spike of nebulously defined 'power' rips through the room, cratering the temperature to forty below and completely occluding even the light of the sun through the window. Textured static of crackling white grey-blue frost races over the floors and most of the way up the walls like the leading edge of a flame over spilled oil. Clustered spears of solid ice erupt from the surfaces surrounding Morgan, thrusting upward and into the wall either through him or behind him, putting him at the center of a mass of crystalline spikes. None of them reflect him, Flint, or anything else in the cabin. The glassy surfaces swirl and flicker only with mirror images of vague and dark things. They don't dramatically freeze an inch from his face or anything so posturingly menacing. Either he ducks between him or they go through his ribs and stomach and legs. It's not for a good thirty seconds that they begin to crumble -not melt- into flakes of diamond dust, dissipating into wisps of raw spiritual essence. It's impossible to miss that even the crystals that didn't hit anything have scattered droplets of blood slowly running down their edges as they crumble to pieces, as if the wooden wall could bleed. The frost fades much more slowly, making the lack of fogged breath coming from Priscilla more overtly apparent. The whole cabin, as palpable as the biting cold, almost vibrates with the sensation of pressing needles -of prickling hot embers and teeth grazing skin- completely impossible to mistake as anything but an obscenely thick supernatural aura, justifying every one of Turk's superstitious tales. Flint recognizing him at all prevents a clinching strike, but she does not apologize, nor even look slightly concerned.
Morgan Berselius	Okay, yeah, maybe Morgan should have taken into account the possibility that someone in the room would be crazy enough or capable enough to go for what could feasibly be called a killing blow. A cage of killing frost erupts from the wall, the floor, the ceiling, possibly even a loose vinyl album cover. The disquieting sound of bones crunching and grinding against spires of bitter ice fills the room as the paladin is summarily run through as if from a dozen different directions at once. The plan was, of course, to simply walk out from the frigid cage like some kind of baller, but that doesn't happen because this is not Morgan's world and he is not necessarily able to walk off a power that is literally the bane of life itself. The paladin's body seems to explode with more blood than it should be capable of containing. Viscous, black fluid drips from enormous, sucking wounds and down the great spears of frost. They dissolve into so much powder, and Morgan collapses into a heap on the floor. ... ... Then, just as Silver throws the door open, a hand slams against the floorboards. "Ow, /fuck./" Morgan growls, forcing himself up with what appears to be an enormous gaping hole in his chest where his body should have been but which was briefly occupied by a massive spike of ice. "I haven't hurt that bad in... I don't even remember! Me-damnit, who DOES that to a guy!?" But-- the wounds already seem to be knitting themselves shut. Tendrils of darkness lash out through ruined flesh, slowly pushing back the dark, killing energies still pulsing within those wounds. Morgan staggers to his feet, little siphons of shadow funneling all that blood that got exploded out of his body back where it belongs. It doesn't get all of it, of course. How do you even cram all that blood into a single body? There's still a bloody chunk missing of his shoulder when he straightens and shoots Priscilla just the /worst/ glare. Just. /What a bitch/ oh my god. But. On to LESS TERRIBLE PEOPLE.
Morgan Berselius	"Josuke," Morgan says with the lazy, lackadaisical ease of someone who is actually about the same age as he looks. You know, the kind that teenagers get when they're thinking they know as much about the world as all the grownups they're supposedly showing up ~so effortlessly.~ Only the fact that his wounds are healing and also /he's actually still alive/ save it from falling completely flat. "Fancy seeing you here. I didn't think you'd be the type to hang out around pirates, but hey whatever. You do you." Morgan doesn't disapprove, of course. He pals around with waaaaaaaaay crazier than pirates from time to time. Speaking of. "Hahaha, yeah sorry. I was about to get discovered down below by that gentleman over in the doorway with the fake leg," Morgan explains. It's total bullshit. He came up through the floor after damn near giving Silver a heart attack because dramatically stepping out of the shadows is just the way things /should/ be. Even if it means he gets literally everyone in the room to point their guns straight for his face. That's kind of part and parcel! He didn't expect to get IMPALED BY UNHOLY ICE for his trouble, PRISCILLA. But at least he can make it sound like he had decent reason. "I figured popping up like this was easier for everyone compared to getting called out as a stowaway and needing to cause even more trouble to get here. Anyway." The paladin meets the captain's gaze with one of... Not /equal/ intensity. It's hard to be quite as angry as a pirate captain who just found out some weird shadow-kid stowed away on his ship after specifically being told to stay off of it. But there's a quiet fury in Morgan's eyes, like the depths of a stormy, wine-dark sea or the infinite abyss of the void. This, at least, is enhanced by the blood his body is still pushing back into the wound that yet occupies so much of his torso. It's an understanding that Shit Got Fucked real fast. "I understand, Captain. Feel free to do your worst to me when we've finished with business. Intruding on a man's sovereign territory is never not a grievous breach of decorum, but I do believe that my terms and services will both meet your approval." "As mister Higashikata can confirm, my talents are primarily focused shadow and the manipulation thereof. I should be able to assist in obscuring your ingress and potentially disguising your vessels as they come and go. And of course, I'll be willing to assist with the messy business as well. My price is a favor and a promise." Morgan cants his head just so. "Guarantee the emancipation and safety of the slaves in that convoy, and my assistance comes at the low price of absolutely nothing at all. Except maybe consideration for the future. What do you say, Captain Flint?"
Captain Flint	June 1705 "A sacred opportunity to right our wrongs?" The phrase is spoken amidst the din of a tavern at night. Two men share a table in this tavern. One of them is Lieutenant McGraw, naval liaison to Lord Thomas Hamilton. The other, Admiral Hennessey himself. Both men wear their uniforms, the admiral's naturally the more decorated of the two. It's his voice, a good deal more aged than the lieutenant's, which speaks the phrase, and not without a fair share of skepticism. "My God," he says between laughter. "Do you know anyone in the world who talks that way?" Between the two of them, the flame of a candle dances tenuously upon the wick. "Is it possible he's fully mad?" Looking at the Admiral is like looking into the future. Age has begun to wear at the man's squared jaw and stern features, yet despite this, his eyes are sharp as ever. "Half of Whitehall whispers it." "He isn't mad. He's just... bright, determined, wealthy. All at the same time." McGraw's eyes stare off into the distance as his hands cradle the pewter mug before him. "Jesus. That's /worse./" Both men share a laugh. Across the tavern, the eyes of other officers are upon them. Upon him. McGraw pretends not to notice. "Actually," says McGraw in a tone that couldn't more clearly be testing the water, "You might like him, sir." He shrugs his shoulders as Hennessey's brow sets in intrigued confusion. "I attended one of those salons of his. One of the ones that half the Royal Society attend, but most deny..." The admiral's expression shifts from intrigue to muted, polite dismay. "Most of those men are pretenders," hastily explains the officer. "Attracted to his ideas because they make them feel like radicals, but Thomas..." McGraw continues despite the admiral's uncomfortable shifting in his seat. "When he talks about the need to rethink things, systemic things, I think he truly believes what he's saying. And what's more, I'm afraid I might believe a good deal of it as well." "/Thomas?/" It's the first word the admiral speaks, but it's more accurate to say he nearly spits it. McGraw chuckles. "I'm sorry, sir. He refuses to stand on ceremony. Insists upon the familiar. I know what you're thinking, but my judgment, as it relates to this assignment, is still intact." The admiral digests that, licks his lips. His fingers drum upon his own mug. Sucking in a breath, he rises. "Ships' business," he states matter-of-factly. "I shall return." When McGraw moves to join him, he waves a hand dismissively. "No, no." For a few moments he remains seated. All more or less seems well, and he moves to the bar to request another round. Across the bar, a group of officers murmur and laugh at one another's jokes. One laugh is perhaps too loud, too easily heard above the noise of the establishment. Eyes forward, he offers them a chance to explain. "Is there a problem?"} "No problem," says a blonde-haired officer with a boyish, youthful face. "None whatsoever." With a brief, amused frown, he adds, "Apologies. Perhaps it's my jealousy showing. Liaison to the Hamilton family. That's quite an appointment! Congratulations, sir." McGraw offers a nod. "Thank you."
Captain Flint	"I must say, I thought myself quite qualified," continues the blonde-haired officer. "But, then, I suppose perhaps for this particular assignment, you were the better man." A low chorus of chuckles rises from his fellows, and despite McGraw's sullen body language, the other officer comes closer, standing beside the lieutenant. "I can understand how it would be of importance to you," grins the other officer. "Someone of your station. Son of a... carpenter's mate given the chance to socialize with a /lord./" "Hold that position for long enough, and you might convince everyone you're something more than you actually are."
Captain Flint	McGraw's stone-faced mask is on, as the laughter from the other officer's friends grows a touch more bold. "A gentleman," goads the officer, "Most civilized. I imagine there is no end to the benefits Thomas Hamilton's favor could bestow upon you. Future employment, status... hell." Leering at McGraw, the officer makes a final jab. "I understand if he likes you well enough, he may even let you fuck his wife." McGraw's fist collides with the other officer's face so quickly that for a moment he seems too stunned to fight back. Even when he raises his arm to swing, McGraw already has another punch heading for his nose. In total, three blows rain down upon the officer before one of his friends steps in to assist. For his trouble, he is slammed headfirst into the bar. The din of the tavern quiets to a deathly pall as McGraw steps over the prone form of his first assailant to hurl the second by his lapels into a support beam. The would-be backup finds his face a bloody, swollen mess before an authoritative shout pierces the tavern and stays McGraw's hand. "Enough!" Admiral Hennessey stands but a few feet from the spectacle. McGraw's tormentors catch ragged breaths in the wake of his assault. "/If/ you are an officer in my fleet, I suggest you leave this place." Tension hangs in the air, the gathered officers waiting for some new development. "NOW!" barks the admiral, sending the officers to sullenly shuffling their way out. He is left face to face with McGraw, his nose bloodied, his hair disheveled, and his pride intact.