Scene #6038: An Unfortunate Discovery

Owner	Pose
Captain Flint	"Some of the veterans say it's stronger now than it ever was," says John Silver. The afternoon sun beats down upon him and George alike in equal measure. Even here on the beach, they can spot the imposing figure of the fort. And even from here, onlookers can see the fruits of the Flotilla's efforts. The original white stone, specially treated by space age chemistry, or outright replaced where old wounds from Spanish razings bid such treatments impossible. The gleam of advanced alloys bracing its nigh impenetrable walls can be seen as far out as the warpgate in the bay. It is the first thing multiversal visitors see when entering via that method. Even now, a mish-mash of vessels from across the Multiverse steadily trickles through, some new, some returning. To a man, they all see the same statement, thanks to the Flotilla: Nassau is protected. And thanks to Josuke's bizarre power, not but two repaired, refitted and repainted Spanish warships sit in the harbor, each one loaded to capacity with cannons that could shred lesser vessels. In short, George, his allies in the Flotilla, and those that Flint or Silver have turned to their cause have done much to be proud of here. And yet, there's still much to be done. Every expenditure towards Nassau's future must be replenished. Though the last of the work is done on the fort, even the Flotilla's discount was still a price tag. TO that end, Silver has invited George to discuss a business opportunity that would line both his pockets, and the Walrus crew's. He changes the subject, turning his back to the fort and gesturing with his free hand towards the expanse of tropical coastline before him. His other hand is, of course, occupied with the crutch that holds him up. "So, how much do you know about the Carolina colony, circa this time period? It's hard to know how much Flint's changed things up when you're living in the middle of it." His crutch digs into the sand, and he leans forward, beginning to walk down the coastline. It's become something of a ritual of his, a stroll through the various pirate camps--a means of garnering valuable information through the occasional overheard bit of gossip from drunken pirates awaiting their next prize.
Starbound Flotilla	George is having a smoke, the way he almost always is in private meetings. It fills the air with that classic hospital smell, though the smell of sterile chemistry is probably more familiar to a pirate of this era as something more like a smell of thorough cleaning agents used in areas of high class. George likes admiring his work on the masterpiece of geopolitical disruption; he's not a terribly prideful man, but he likes to take satisfaction in what he does. "Pretty soon even stronger, if anyone with a good head on their shoulders has anything to say about it." George says, then he takes a long drag on the cigarette and releases another cloud. "Carolina... Didn't I date a Carolina in highschool? Wouldn't be surprised if that was some thousand-year-old witch. Well, where I come from, there's a lot of human history." He explains. "And honestly, too much for us to keep track of. Couple historian groups on Earth knew an awful lot, but, well," He gestures broadly. "Ever move houses a lot? You lose your keepsakes, no matter what. Humanity's that way, now that Earth's gone. I know Carolina was one of the names around the Volatile Times, but I couldn't tell you much myself. Most of those old governments are trading cards or jaypegs of girls in games too expensive for me to play these days." He gestures pointedly with the near-spent cigarette. "Colony tells me more though. That's something that never changes the meaning. A settlement is what you make when you want a new home. A colony is what you make when you want the profits from somewhere. So already you've told me there's a chance for profit there, enough a nation will move through its slowness to get it." He grins in an intrigued way, keeping curious.
Captain Flint	Silver wrinkles his nose, frowning and squinting at George as if to say 'how the fuck can you smoke that shit?' He shakes his head and continues along down the beach, listening to the more contemporary pirate's answer. He and Flint tend to think of George as one of them, even if he's clothed in different trappings. He has the mindset. The more he talks, the more Silver feels justified in thinking that, too--the subtle undercurrent of disdain for authority that flows through his conversations, even when it's not necessarily the subject matter, reinforces that picture in his mind. His face darkens with worry only once George suggests that the planet he and everyone else here take for granted might not be theirs forever. "There certainly is," says Silver. "Even Nassau's a colony, if you ask W--... England." He seems to have stopped himself, and chosen a more easily recognizable word, there. He also seems to have become much more comfortable with the crutch and his 18th century prosthesis. Even in the sand, he has a rhythmic, even gait. "Carolina, then, is a colony in the Americas. Also belonging to England. The governor, Peter Ashe," continues Silver, his voice lowering as they pass through a few different camps of pirates, "Is offering a £250,000 reward for the return of his daughter, Abigail. Flint thinks he's got a lead on a ship that's found her, so all we'd have to do is get out there and take it." Silver's eyes dart suspiciously back and forth. With his free hand, he makes a subdued gesture towards the varied displays of drunken revelry and brutal power games (mostly just trading blows) around him. Amidst the many spatterings of dirty, raucous pirates there arise from the ground flagpoles, and from each pole flies a different black standard. "We'd naturally have to take a few precautions here, as well as at sea. Flint's saying no survivors once we take the prize," he utters to George in a conspiratory tone. "Don't want it getting back here, or back to the colony." They eventually reach a point where there are no more pirate crews. It becomes inconvenient, past that point, to set up camp when the town and the harbor--the money--is so far away. Ordinarily, this is the point where Silver would turn around, and begin making his way back towards the Walrus, or the camp belonging to its crew. But something stop him. A form, lying upon the beach in the distance, solitary. He stops in his tracks, and gives George a curious look. With his brow furrowed, he motions to the single, prone form. It looks to be a body. "See that?"
Starbound Flotilla	George puts up a finger. "No survivors works unreliably and that's a fact; no matter how many Deathsquads come down, there's always some shmuck on an escape pod, is what I know. Mostly on account of being a shmuck on an escape pod, professionally! What you have to do is make sure things fall apart the way they normally do -- in a way that cleans up most of what you have to deal with, and if anyone makes it out, they're confused. You put the danger where the knowledge is. That's the way pros do it, usually. You can't count cards, you can only gamble, but you can gamble smart, and play to win." His philosophy is straightforward, and born mostly of experience; something in the look of his eye makes him seem like a man who has survived at least one no-survivors scenario. "Precautions are good. You don't want to play /prize rugby/ with something delicate, especially if it's delicate sensibilities. I'm thinking that the best route you could go for would be..." He starts, then stops as quick, when Silver notes the body. "Huh. Jeez, looking like someone got too rowdy. Think we can do one of those, what're they called, tribunals if they got slit and their friends are angry? I impersonated a lawyer once." Boy, George jumps to some conclusions. "Probably just a little too much in the keg. Hey, buddy, up and at 'em. Beds are that way." He heads over to the body, squatting over it, and checking in a surprisingly professional way for signs of identification, wounds, troubling equipment, and other suchlike. It's no forensic analysis, but he's the kind of man who sometimes has to figure out a corpse, a drunkard, or a tazed-out combatant in a snap judgment, in the contexts where you can find all three drifting nearby in zero gravity frequently. An arm is offered to Silver, conveniently, in case he wants to head over and investigate himself. George is keenly conscious of the man's new prosthetic needs.
Captain Flint	"Not a bad idea," says the Walrus' quartermaster. The first thing George will notice is that Silver doesn't take his offer. Perhaps it's because of personal pride or image. The second thing he'll notice is that even once the sand becomes more fine and less firm, he navigates it with a determined, surprising amount of dexterity. All the more so, considering the 'foot' of his wooden leg is essentially just a thin iron slab. But the third thing he'll notice is perhaps the most important. This man is breathing. His skin is that of a pirate from a European country: burned and battered by sun and sea. His blonde hair is cut close to his head. His wrists and ankles show signs of having worn heavy shackles. The man's clothes fit him loosely, as if he's lost a lot of weight. The only thing that seems strange about him, aside from the fact that he's all the way out here by himself, is his 'shirt.' It's a leather jerkin of some sort, and there doesn't seem to be a way to easily get it off. At least, not on the back. More than that is hard to say, as he's lying on his stomach. "Let's turn him over," says Silver. He'll even lay the crutch down for a moment to do so. The moment the man's face is revealed, Silver goes pale as snow. "Holy shit," he hisses. George might recognize him from the Urca hunt last year. It's Billy Bones, the former bo'sun. He's evidently suffered under captivity by some party or other, but his youthful face is unmistakable. His breathing is ragged, and the jerkin he wears doesn't seem to have a means of removal on the front, either. Given how snugly it fits him, it might not be apparent how it was put on him in the first place. That said, it doesn't seem to be helping his breathing much. Finding a crewmate who'd been missing for over a year would normally be cause for celebration, but Silver looks anything but pleased. Standing over the barely conscious boatswain, Silver kneels to retrieve his crutch and sucks in a breath through his teeth. Billy was well-liked by the crew. During the storm the night before they captured the prize, he'd fallen overboard. The crew, and even the quartermaster at the time, felt Flint was to blame. Even now, it was a wound that hadn't quite healed. Flint had their support, but their trust was pushing it. If he indeed had let Billy fall overboard, or gone so far as to throw him, his return would be disastrous for the taking of a prize like Ashe's daughter. "George, I need you to go to the Walrus and get Randall," he says urgently. "Tell him I said we need a tent, a bedroll, and some restraints. I'll stay here with Billy and make sure no one else sees him." He seems to think that George will naturally feel the same way--but if he doesn't, his urgent tone and wide-eyed gaze suggests there will certainly be a debate.
Starbound Flotilla	George hefts the man onto his back with less a surprising degree of strength and more a surprising dexterity. He places his eyebrows firmly up on the top shelf of his face, far out of reach of children, and says, "Hell, s'like getting spaced. How'd he wind up all the way back here? Jesus. He's one buoyant-ass son of a bitch, or someone ditched him here on purpose. This one of those ironically agreement-fulfilling releases or something?" He glances to Silver. A man like George works in wordless terms, unspoken agreements and acting on action and expression. George's profession of Syndicate work is very similar to those of pirates, in that what goes unsaid is just as meaningful as what is spoken aloud. He flicks the cigarette almost as a silent punctuation. If he was sent out to sea here, perhaps someone wanted him seen. Perhaps, in whatever captivity he was put through, he said something that showed his value if he were returned to Nassau alive, to wreak whatever havoc his presence might wreak. George can gauge that mood between Flint and his crew. But more than that, he can gauge two things in particular: The cruel, painful ruthlessness of any possible authority groups in their wars against pockets like Nassau, and the vengeful, bitter venom that runs through people betrayed by their leader. Whoever or whatever was responsible for the captivity and the release, and what part Billy played in it, there's no arrangement of these pieces that comes out good.
Starbound Flotilla	He's done squatting and he's starting running. "Got it." He says, urgently. Then he's got a hand on his earpiece. "Seft. Sonar, did you catch anything? Any trajectories we can trace, any silhouettes we got on-file? Dammit -- the port's too /busy/." He's not sure what his fellow is likely to pick up. For now, he's getting everything they need from Randall, making the not-unlikely claim that it's needed for someone special and rowdy, with a fogged mind and quick fists, who needs to not get put down for poor choice of smoke.
Captain Flint	Silver is utterly honest in his response to George's entirely appropriate question. To wit, he shrugs his shoulders in a most exasperated way. He, too, thought that the man was dead. "He wasn't wearing that when he went overboard," says the quartermaster with certainty, pointing at the leather jerkin. To remember someone's wardrobe a year ago... that's an impressive memory. "At least, I don't think he was..." Anyway, George asks Seft for intel. As he might have guessed, the port's too busy. But, New Providence being an island, there is sometimes through traffic. Ships who have no business there, but are well-armed or well-supported enough to make attack a matter of suicide, even for ships who sail for Nassau. For example, no one would dare attack a warship like the Andromache, and risk a 50-gun broadside, or the doubtless reprisals to come even if the beast could be felled. So--with regards to the port, she'll no doubt reply that it's too busy. But Seft is smart, and observant. She'll note that there was one ship which passed through, a day or so ago. It was huge, undoubtedly a naval ship of the line. And it passed by the same stretch of coast he's currently running down. Moreover, Seft can trace its passage all the way back to its point of departure: Harbor Island. It's only 70 miles from Nassau, and it remains under English governance. It is also the site of a British garrison with some two hundred men under a Captain Hume. In other words, it looks like his guess was more accurate than perhaps he would've liked. Randall is quick to provide what George needs, although he ends up having to help carry it out. It shouldn't be a problem. This is the same man who once attacked George with his own wooden leg, in an effort to defend Silver. The storied attack took place when he was the only one on the ship to feel the thief worth defending, so he can prooobably be trusted to keep his mouth shut. The two men hurry back down the beach to find Silver cutting the leather jerkin off of Billy's body. The unconscious pirate's breathing seems much easier, after this. A few minutes of set-up pass. They've got a tent, and the privacy that affords. The resting boatswain has a bedroll to lie upon, and his arms and legs are bound to keep him from making any sudden movements. Randall himself sees to that, using some of those famously complex nautical knots. He even brought a few wooden buckets for George, himself and Silver to sit upon. It takes some time for Billy to come to, but eventually, he's there. Naturally the first thing he does is strain against his restraints. Seeing Silver upon first waking up understandably has him cagey. "Get Gates," he says to Randall, attempting to reason with the not-all-there ship's cook. It says a lot about his trust for Geoerge and Silver that he'd attempt to get Randall's attention first. As with much of his interactions, Randall simply stares. "He don't sail with us no more," slowly drawls the cook. The current state of things begins to set in. Billy has a lot to catch up on--but so do Silver and George, for the sheer fact of his survival.
Starbound Flotilla	"Phew, you are /steamed/ and I can't blame ya." George says, lighting up a new cigarette, squatting on the bucket. He does that any time he gets into one of these conversations, though never alone. The smoking thing, I mean, not the bucket. "Hot ride and a wet way to ride it, but you trust me, you're gonna be fine. Lucky son of a bitch, bet they couldn't even put you down without a gun exploding in their fucking face. How'd you even get back here?" He tilts his head and takes a long drag before continuing. "So, I know you're probably stressed out, and that's fine. Want a smoke?" He offers something from his pack, but it's not anything that smells remotely appealing. "It's good for ya. Promise." "Look, we'll level with you here. You're the one holding /us/ over the barrel here. Sure, you're the guy tied down, but fact is, whatever you know kept the britbongs feeding you, what you are means a lot to the crew, and you could do a lot of good, or a lot of bad -- alive or dead. So, chill out, don't worry as bad, take the load off a little, and lemme know what I can get for you. Let's talk man-to-man, with some good mutual respect for each other's time and pain. Trust me, I've gotten spaced a fair couple times. Sometimes it wasn't even my own fault." He leans forward, gesturing with the cigarette. "Tell me what happened and what you're wanting. I wanna respect you for what you went through, and I wanna act on it in some ways that figure what you want. And from how the crew thought of you, I'm sure you'll do me the same sort of kindness." George is a goofball, but he knows how to deal with men in this business. Respect them and acknowledge some cards in their hand, agree to your own limits, and they'll shoot straight, or at least a little straighter than they do by default -- which is crooked as hell. His smile is broad and happy, even welcoming and upbeat.
Captain Flint	Billy politely declines the smoke. He, like Silver, seems to think nothing good can come from huffing that shit. When George makes mention of the 'britbongs,' Silver raises his brow. Lest that be mistaken for confusion, his eyes notably spark with recognition. He remains silent. Billy does not. "I want to know what happened." It's the first thing that he says. It more or less falls to George or Silver to explain. Even though he doesn't trust them, Billy knows Randall well enough to know that asking him for more than a few words is somewhat unrealistic. So, Silver explains the events of the past year, since, as George said, Billy is technically the one with the cards in this situation. A few minutes pass as he explains the successful Urca hunt, the capturing of the gold, Flint's plans for Nassau, and not least of all, his own appointment as quartermaster. Billy doesn't seem happy with it--especially not with Gates being replaced by Silver, of all people. But he is, at least, satisfied that it's more or less true. Silver prods him to explain what happened. So he does. To hear him tell it, he was captured by the navy, tortured for information, and escaped custody. This doesn't quite satisfy Silver, however. "You didn't mention the means by which you managed that escape," says the quartermaster with evident suspicion. Billy squints at him incredulously. "Why are you here?" "I beg your pardon?" "Why are you the one here defending him?" George can probably guess who Billy means. "I can understand him," says the bo'sun with a nod towards George. "He's after money. But you?" Silver chuckles. "Ah, yes. I suppose it must come as a surprise given the state of things last year. But it's become clear to me that a crew requires two men to function." He raises a hand, leaning forward in his seat. One index finger is lifted. "One to tell them what to do," says the quartermaster, raising the neighboring finger. "And another to tell them why they should want to do it. In Mr. Gates' absence, the latter role was unfilled. I thought I could fill it." Billy cants his head as if he didn't quite hear. "How the fuck did you manage that?" "I tried to tell you once," says Silver with a slightly proud glance towards George. "I'm a hard man not to like. And at the end of the day, being liked is just as good as being feared." "We like him," croaks Randall. Silver smiles. Billy scoffs. "You thought Flint killed me. He would've killed /Gates,/ if not for Sombra. And you stepped in to fill his shoes. I don't know if you're dangerous or stupid." At that, Silver shrugs, allowing himself one single laugh. "Probably a little of both," he grins. "But I am certain I'll avoid the mistake you both made. I don't believe in him. To me, he's a means of securing freedom from wages. Nothing more, nothing less. Which is why I, and George as well, need to know... when asked by the men, what will you tell them happened on the bow of the Walrus that night? How did you end up in the water?"
Starbound Flotilla	"I don't know why you think stupid is different from dangerous. Gotta make sure you're a little of both to get anywhere! The first to want to be there, and the second to make sure you can survive it." George says, with a sheepish grin, before flicking his cigarette away again. He glazes right over the issue of money with as much grace as Billy glazes over the issue of escaping the English. "Just like Gates, it's all a matter of /what/ and /why/." He regards Silver's honesty with that same observant, sheepish grin. "Nobody ever got anything worth anything in the world without putting a little skin in the game, Billy. Don't think of people just looking for less danger." He gestures out to Nassau, broadly. "Nassau's going strong -- it's looking good! Stronger than ever, in fact, since we got the Urca. It's a real land of opportunity, you know! So what you've got now is skin to put back in the game, and a lot of prize to win from it. There's a /lot/ you can do that doesn't mean you have to get your tension back up with Flint." "Think on the /why/. What do you really want outta this? I think if you take a good look at Nassau, you'll see things you like. You're in a good position to do a lot, and it doesn't really have to be anything we'd disagree on here, no matter how you feel about Flint. Besides, you know what's a real intimidating kind of pirate? The kind with a hell of a story. Maybe getting washed up on an island and fighting savages and building a raft with your wits and your own two fists? Maybe drifting 'til the sea spirits decided you were worthy? Could go with something else?" He leans over and smiles wide. "What do you think, Billy? You've got a huge opportunity. A well-aged vintage reputation that makes you hard to backstab, a port full of money and power, people who'd rather be your friend than not..." George is trying to focus on his own philosophy. Focus on the now and the future. Bottle the past away and cast it out. And always take the opportunity when it knocks, don't wait for safety. He's hoping a man like Billy Bones and his pirate ways of thinking will match his own Syndicate habits.
Captain Flint	Billy thinks long and hard on what George has to say, his sunburnt brow furrowing. "You're a hell of a salesman," he finally remarks. The wind gently rustles the canvas walls of the tent. "If you'd come to me last year talking about reputations and personal fortune, I'd have fallen in line with Flint right there. I'm not here to cause trouble," he says. "But I'm not here to get rich, either." "Silver," says Billy. "You keep focusing on how I went in. What you should worry about is what pulled me out. I can see how the men would've been taken in by you. You're good at it, too. Shit," he says, chuckling bitterly and shaking his head. "The two of you together..." He trails off. "But know this. Had I been there, I doubt it would've been this easy for you." Silver sighs. He's determined, this one. He chooses to ignore the undercurrent of hostility, and instead addresses Billy's warning. "Harbor Island," he begins. "Captain Hume. The Scarborough." Another English warship, and judging by the weight he ascribes it, not one with which one lightly fucks. "...we might be able to take them, with an organized defense. Especially with George's work on the fort." "Maybe," Billy says. "If what he says about Nassau is true, you could put up a fight. A good one, too. But you know England won't stop at that. They're already massing troops on Harbor Island." "How do they know? Septette--" "Did a hell of a job, from what you told me," says Billy. "But I doubt Spain cares much for the superstitions of her people. Five million dollars, Silver. They weren't just going to let that sink away." "And with war against England but ten years behind, they've already started pointing fingers," Silver supposes. He frowns thoughtfully. "You still haven't told us what you want." "First of all, I want you to release me," he says, holding up his bound wrists. "You'll have to, sooner or later. You have no choice. And the longer you delay, the greater the chance that I might take it personally." His jaw sets, and his blue eyes have a certainty to them that George will recognize. It's that same certainty that appears in the eyes of the greyshirt who's had enough, and is about to turn, no matter the number of guns pointed at him. The quartermaster chuckles, running a hand through his hair. "I think I have some choice in the matter." Billy nods towards Randall. "Not with him here, you don't." "We like him, too," rumbles the cook. It's Billy's turn to smile, but it lasts only a moment. "Aside from that, I want this place ready, and united, when England comes. Because, I assure you, they're coming." He holds his bound wrists up expectantly. "Flint warned me about it, and I didn't believe him. Starting shit with him now just makes us an easier target."
Starbound Flotilla	George snaps and gestures positively. "Rich isn't everything. Plenty in this world worth going after -- but you gotta go after it. I'm not much of a salesman, really. Salesman makes you want something -- I just help people see what they want. You wanna get what you're after, you can do it here." He waits and listens to the warning, figuring it. Something in his brain is going through some kind of math, it looks like. Gauging naval strength in this world against emplacement strength in his engineering. "Alright. Troops. A hell of a ship. Spain, too, and... Jeez, Billy, you sure don't bring good news with you, huh? No kind of good news ever comes outta the ocean, dammit. Alright! Well, that puts the pressure on! We just gotta ramp up some reinforcements, don't we? That means we're gonna need more materials, and more cash. Looks like that business," He glances to Silver. "Is going on the front burner, but we'll have a lot more cover to keep it on the down low." George goes ahead and starts undoing the binds. "I think we're gonna get along, Billy. You're a practical guy. You want what you want and you do what you gotta to get it, same as me. Let's get you back on your feet and more importantly let's get some drink and some grub in your gut. We're gonna be hard at work on making sure this place is still standing when the storm hit, believe me. I'm not the kind of guy who's gonna spare a cent of expense when it comes to making sure Nassau pulls through as hard and as far as the thing can pull." George rarely says such things so definitively and with anything that can be construed as honesty, so it's a notable thing. "Shoot straight and you'll never get shot, that's how I always think of it. You should see what the place is like with more cash on hand! I think you'll like it." The tense situation had him on edge, putting him through a chain of cigarettes, but it slides gracefully off of him the moment it's done.