Scene #6090: A Sacred Opportunity Pt. 1

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Captain Flint	London, March 1705 (Ten Years Before Unification) Whitehall ''They say it started with a man named Henry Every,'' Lord Thomas Hamilton explains as the officer accompanies him on his daily rounds. The lord wears finery more or less in keeping with the style of the day. A grey three piece ensemble: breeches, waistcoat and vest, with culottes and fine leather shoes. A voluminous, curled brown wig rests atop his head. ''Sailed into the port of Nassau, bribed the governor to look past his sins, and camped his crew upon the beach.'' The two men descend a broad set flight of ivory stairs which rise to meet the face of a government building, seeming old despite its pristine coat of paint. Cradled in Hamilton's arm is a set of books, as well as his tricorn hat. ''And thus began the pirate issue on New Providence Island. Where and when will it all end?'' The two men share a look. Hamilton's slight, yet confident smile meets the officer's stony, attentive frown. The officer, by comparison, is a man of the Navy, dressed in a blue overcoat with a matching tricorn hat, white shirt, and pants tucked into well polished black leather boots. A sheathed officer's saber bounces at his hip as he descends the stairs. His rank insignia marks him as a lieutenant. Natural amber brown hair, rather than a wig, runs shoulder length, tied into a ponytail with a ribbon. His jaw is well-defined, his nose rigidly set between two broad cheekbones, with seafoam eyes that seem to bore into whatever he looks upon. Even in this polite conversation, there is a certain determined intensity to those eyes. ''I suppose that's where you and I come in,'' Hamilton notes after a pause. ''As you're aware,'' continues the lord as the two men make a leisurely pace down the street, ''My father, the Earl, holds a great deal of sway in Whitehall.'' The name referred both to the English government and the street upon which its most crucial buildings lay. ''He has asked for the assistance of the Navy in pacifying the island to which he holds title.'' New Providence Island. Nassau. The officer's attentive frown turns up at the corners, as if he were listening to a friend spin an amusing story in a parlor, and the story was slowly beginning to get all the more amusing. ''He was assured that this request would be given the utmost importance.'' ''Undoubtedly, my lord.'' The response is almost an interruption, so quickly does the officer give it. The faint hint of mirth upon his face vanishes with that same quickness. Hamilton's leisurely pace slows to a crawl. Then, he stops, standing in the officer's way. Affixing the other man with a scrutinizing gaze, he poses a question. ''Then perhaps you can tell me why they decided to send you.'' The officer stops. The question is given thought. Turned over in his mind. His eyes close briefly, his mouth hangs open just a tad as he fails to see the reasoning for it. All he can muster for a response is a polite, yet curious, ''Beg pardon, my lord?'' Hamilton swallows, taking a moment to put together an explanation. ''A number of your superiors are former schoolmates of mine,'' he begins. His grey eyes flick up and down once, taking in the measure of the man before him once more. ''I canvased them about your reputation. The son of a carpenter, no record of any formal schooling, and yet...'' The officer visibly stifles. ''More literate than any three boys I knew at Eton. You are a rising /star,/ with a bright future in the admiralty.'' He raises a brow. ''You can understand my concern.'' ''Not really.'' flatly responds the officer with a shake of his head. His frown becomes a shade incredulous. ''Perhaps my lack of education is showing,'' he further remarks. His tone is, some would say, a touch improper. Hamilton sighs. ''I intend to accomplish something here, lieutenant. I intend to save Nassau, before she's lost forever. And I cannot do that with a partner who is more concerned with advancing his career than accomplishing this goal.''
Captain Flint	A moment passes wherein neither man has something to say. In that moment, it is the lord's turn to be scrutinized, as the songs of birds and the beat of hooves upon cobblestone play through the air around them. The officer is the first to speak up, after a wry smile steadily grows. That incredulity from before creeps into his seafoam eyes, dancing there with just a bit of derision. He nods. ''You want to save Nassau, my lord?'' ''Very much so.'' ''Then perhaps it is my job to make certain you know what you're getting into.'' His smile takes a less mirthful shape. Low, and wide, as if to say that he knows for a fact this Lord Hamilton has no idea what he's getting into.
Captain Flint	New Providence Island October 1716 Nassau There are many reasons one might visit Nassau. In the time since unification it's become a hub for illicit trade from the Multiverse over. There are a wide span of cultures and civilizations represented in the bay alone. Junk ships anchor there alongside repurposed modern day fishing boats, while magically powered airships and high tech starships hover above. The fort poised at the top of a hill further inland is an unspoken threat to any who would cause trouble here, but for all the various cultures represented, not a one of them seems to say ''this is mine.'' Any who would make such a claim would contend with the fort, and even from the sea it's obvious that Fort Nassau has been the beneficiary of Multiversal tampering. THE BEACH Crews of various ships gather upon the beach, since there's no real place to moor a vessel any bigger than a dinghy. They are engaged in various tasks, from unloading stolen cargo to erecting tents to idle chest-beating and drinking. Of particular note is the presence of a ship beached upon the shore. Like the fort further inland, this ship was once a product of this world, but has since been modified and tampered with to render it competitive with the Multiverse's movers and shakers. That being said, it's in bad shape. The hull is in some places blown wide open to such a degree that one wonders how the ship made it to shore at all. Metal plating beneath it is no less so, marred with scorch marks and scars alike. Several sails appear to have suffered burns, as well, blowing tattered in the wind. This ship is the WALRUS, and JOHN SILVER, her quartermaster, stands watch over those with the unenviable task of making it seaworthy once more. He is a man of average height and unimposing build; fit for sail, but not nearly so burly as many a pirate on the beach. Dark, wavy hair falls to either side of his face. One hand gesticulates as he gives orders, the other rests upon a crutch. He wears a blue jacket over a white ruffled shirt dampened and stained with sweat. His green breeches culminate in a leather boot on the right leg, and a primitive, 18th century prosthetic on the other. As if the damage to the vessel weren't enough, Silver appears woefully understaffed for the task at hand. The amount of men he commands could scarcely be called a skeleton crew. A hundred yards away, the ship's doctor tends to wounded crew members in the open air, but even taking these into account, the number seems lacking for a ship of the Walrus' size. If anyone were inclined to help repair the vessel, now would be an opportune time. NASSAU TOWN If the beach seemed noisy, Nassau Town is cacophony. Those with business, or mere interest in the goings-on of the town, will be struck first by this. A tangled mess of conversations rise over one another, and over the din of animals. Tethered horses, caged chickens, stray dogs and all manner of alien creatures brought in by the Multiversal denizens here make their existence known just as the other residents do. Commerce of varying legitimacy is but one form of exchange bouncing between the town's cracked and peeling buildings. Coins clink, hammers strike anvils, insults fly in that most classic form of haggling. The streets are packed with bodies, with businesses, and with the rank odor of a settlement whose de jure governors can''t be assed to set up indoor plumbing, aqueducts, or efficient waste disposal. Though the buildings crumble at the edges, the roads wind and wobble unevenly, and the paint peels, the town is more alive than perhaps it has ever been. The town has a butcher, a blacksmith, carpenters, tailors, a farmer's market, a jeweler, an appraiser, and all manner of services in between. If it's for sale somewhere, it's for sale in Nassau. This is especially true of stolen goods, for which there is a burgeoning business, thanks to its de facto governor: Eleanor Guthrie, the Pirate Queen of Nassau.
Captain Flint	Her ''consignment'' house (read: fence) is one point of interest able to be seen from the square. A long line of pirates is queued up in front of it, while an employee of hers argues and haggles with each in turn over the value of their hauls and the rate of her taxes. Grumble though they might, none dare challenge the symbol her authority past a certain point, as each one knows the value of a good business relationship. The other point of interest here is the TAVERN, also owned by Eleanor Guthrie. The name has long since worn from the signpost which hangs above the arched entryway, and so nearly everyone just calls it the Tavern. It is a two-story building of yellowed white walls, with hardwood floors that are warped and dried with age. A good deal of the noise from town is coming from here, and today, the place is absolutely packed. It actually takes a bit of elbowing past people to get in. A cursory bit of listening to the crowd reveals the reason. A number of pirate captains are recruiting today, and among them is CAPTAIN FLINT, the most feared pirate in the West Indies, and the first to take this world''s piracy to the Multiverse at large. Where Nassau is concerned, he very well may be the reason the town has become what it is today. The general consensus is that sailing with him is as lucrative as it is dangerous. Once any interested parties get past the crowd into the tavern, he's not hard to find. He's seated at a table with a few open spots, vetting those bold enough to sail with him over a mug of rum. Flint is a stern-looking man, dressed every bit the pirate captain yet with a fierce intelligence in his seafoam eyes. His face is beaten by sun and sea alike, his near-perpetual frown framed by an amber-brown goatee. His hair is just long enough to be a nuisance, and is therefore bound slightly at the back to keep it from his face. If anyone were to seek work with him, now would be an opportune time.
Alexis Maaka	A 21st century combat cyborg fits here as much as a UFO at the fields of Waterloo. That said, Maaka does have experience wandering through a town of scum and villainy. They rarely change in spirit. Lack of beard aside, the heavy coat and a thick plate carrier keep Maaka's sex a mystery, and a hat leaves her features concealed as she wades through the crowd. It's a good thing she hasn't brought classy shoes, 'cause she doesn't even want to think about what her boots are treading upon. The tropical island's locals are a rowdy and odious bunch, picking fights and swindling one another at a moment's notice. Maaka keeps her distance, knowing that strangers around here can make for appetizing targets. She's just glad that she isn't exactly the type of girl you'd expect womanhungry pirates to come after. Funny, just last night she was dealing with pirates of a more advanced sort in Hawaii. Now here she is, in the golden age of piracy. At least they won't give her any shit for openly carrying a shotgun and machine pistol beneath her coat, assuming they're not gawking in her bizarre choice in armaments. As she makes her way toward the tavern, a prostitute's attempts at charming her into spending the night at the local cathouse gets Maaka grinning like an idiot. "Sorry luv, business 'fore pleasure!" She calls out, doffing her hat before making her way into the tavern. Instead of ordering a drink immediately, the cyborg just scans the crowd before she spies a familiar face at one of the tables. Word had spread that Flint was recruiting, and the captain had struck Maaka as a man rare amid this rabble. The kinda guy who's comfortable lying in the muck, but several notches sharper than the regular scum. Could be interesting if nothing else. "Afternoon, Flint." The cyborg grins, grabbing a chair. "A little birdie told me you were recruiting, word is your crew's severely undermanned. Don't suppose you'd be willing to slot me in?" Even if she's several hundred years ahead of the curve for this place, even with the multiverse having had its effect, Alexis Maaka sits like she belongs here, kicking a leg out and slouching with a cavalier grin on her face.
Josuke Higashikata	Josuke would have had to get here via a boat supplied by the Speedwagon Foundation. Which would in itself be a pain in the butt, since propelled ships are not a thing in this era, and the Speedwagon Foundation maintains that it will not interfere in the development of a world needlessly. And 'introducing an early 1700s world to the wonders of propelled ships' is definitely something they'd classify as 'needless interference'. But Josuke wants to see how things are going... and he cares a little less about 'needless interference'. To that end, Josuke's actually in a typical-looking rowboat of the era. Jotaro knows his fore from his aft, so to speak, so the boat is almost period perfect (aside form having been made with modern tools). And Josuke's wearing the attire he usually wears when visiting Windknight's Lot. He's still going to attract attention -- and probably the WRONG KIND -- because it looks like a rich Victorian man's garb, in dark blue. And it's a bit more modern than this world's accustomed to, but it's definitely not his usual stuff. However, due to aforementioned not caring about 'needless interference', instead of rowing the damn thing properly, he's taking a different approach. The oars are sitting in the boat next to him, and he's sitting nearer the back of the craft. This is, of course, so that his Stand, Crazy, Diamond, can hang off the back of the small craft. Yes, the Stand is kicking its feet at incredibly fast speeds. He's making good time. Of course this means that, to anybody who CAN'T see the Stand... it looks like the boat is moving completely by itself. Shits given counter stands at exactly 0 This also means that he's going to come across the ship first, and he winces at the shape of it, and at there being so few people there to help fix it. He mentally directs his Stand to steer his boat towards the Walrus. When he can stop his boat, he stands up, and calls up to Silver, in English, "<Ahoy there!>" That's how people get others' attention in this era, right? Probably doesn't sound quite right, with Josuke's accent. He's bad at English. Then back to a language he actually has a decent grasp on, he asks, "Need some help?"
Morgan Berselius	Go out and explore, they said. See what the world is like outside the shithole that has been the past few decades, they said. What the heck, he said, seems like a good idea. Why not!!! Well. One problem is that living on your own in the middle of a blasted wasteland means that you're KIND OF BROKE. Like, what is even there to sell? Nothing! Nothing but dust and broken dreams and turnips. So many turnips. But there's no way that he'd sell those; there are people who rely on those turnips! Rely... almost entirely... on those turnips. At least he doesn't particularly need things like food or drink, and when it comes to travelling, there's not really anything in particular stopping him from getting from place to place. Some of the local Nassauers might have noticed a particularly large and scraggly-looking raven flying in from somewhere much further away than any corvid should, by rights, have ever been able to fly. That was a couple hours ago. Now, though... Now, there's someone looking altogether like he belongs on a pirate island strutting into the tavern. He's wrapped in rags that wouldn't look out of place on some kind of seasworn scallywag, carrying a lantern at his hip and carrying an air of... Danger. Also, of being way too young to be a pirate. Seriously, this guy looks like he's barely over sixteen or something. Still, he's here for a reason. The young man wordlessly moves to lean over the bar, and says in a voice that seems like it's intended to be a hushed whisper, but comes out instead as a tired growl, "I'm looking for information about the one called The Foreigner," he says to the barkeep-- and possibly to everyone else around-- "I'm told he sails the sea. Anyone come in with anything on the guy?"
Starbound Flotilla	Captain Flint is just about the only man in the world who both occupies a position of power and also can often expect George to work for him entirely proactively on his own time. The only woman, of course, is Priscilla. His business is with John Silver, despite his greater affinity with Flint. While he supports Flint unambiguously, and supports Silver conveniently, Silver's the one hard at work on hull-craft, and George is bad at crowds anyway. So he's here, fussing mostly with a welder and metal plating, smoking that hospital-smelling cigarette as usual, and hiding his eyes behind heavy welder's goggles. He peers up when Josuke arrives. "Hey there Takebacksies, good seeing you again! Haven't seen ya since, what, that wasteland monster thing? Hey, someone busted up the Walrus real bad and we're short-handed. How far back does your reversal-thing go? I bet you'd be a /great/ help if you can pull in the old damage. Silver! What's your call?" George grins, gesturing over at Josuke with his cigarette in his hand, before planting it back in his mouth. The rest of the Flotilla are here helping out among the ship, but are mooostly irrelevant when it comes to chattering around Nassau these days.
Ezekiel Gravez	Giles Everett is a bear of a man. He sits, with one leg propped up on a second chair, nearest to the center of the tavern in NASSAU. Sat in front of him, is a shipmate he is laughing and talking with, whom he had not known long. He had only been serving for a short time, having only barely won a position on the pirate ship THE ZEPHYR for a few months now. Being a deckhand offered so little view into the mind of the street while out, but it served as a virtual breeding ground when it came to hearing the voices of the crew. His face was barely freshly shaven, and dressed in a coat appropriate for the weather of the island. The last haul was good, and it earned him a little bit of extra coin, which he found quickly spends as fast as you earn it. Being a pirate wasn't really his cup of tea, and the work wasn't always honest but the physical nature of it didn't seem to bother him so much.
Ezekiel Gravez	Giles Everett is a bear of a man. He sits, with one leg propped up on a second chair, nearest to the center of the tavern in NASSAU. Sat in front of him, is a shipmate he is laughing and talking with, whom he had not known long. He had only been serving for a short time, having only barely won a position on the pirate ship THE ZEPHYR for a few months now. Being a deckhand offered so little view into the mind of the street while out, but it served as a virtual breeding ground when it came to hearing the voices of the crew. His face was barely freshly shaven, and dressed in a coat appropriate for the weather of the island. The last haul was good, and it earned him a little bit of extra coin, which he found quickly spends as fast as you earn it. Being a pirate wasn't really his cup of tea, and the work wasn't always honest but the physical nature of it didn't seem to bother him so much. Underneath the clothes, and the new identiy lay a cybernetically enhanced Techno Wizard named Ezekiel Gravez. The Watch was looking for a new harbour in which to set up shop. The future of NASSAU seemed poised for great and terrible things in the years to come. The omens and portents of this small speck of dust in the multiverse made a stong suggestion that the Watch be there to witness the events unfold. Perhaps not so suggested as an alliance, but as a listening post to keep an ear open to what the future NASSAU had in store.
Ezekiel Gravez	The Watch wasn't particularly looking for influence within a possible powerful pirate colony, but if they get large enough and start to explore the stars, the Watch certainly will want to know about it. A dossier came across his tablet, as Zeke looked it over and weighed his options. It normally wouldn't be his first pick of assignments, but the idea of adventure during the time of ancient earth history really did appeal to him. After all, in his time on Rubi-ka pirates and piracy were not unheard of, even in the technological future.So, disguised physically and with concealed technology, he set mind to task to find out how this world ticks. Carrying a saber on his hip, he shifted in his seat to point and nod towards the direction of Flint, captain of the Walrus. "Whatcha think, mate? Is'e scarier than the stories say? There was a bit of a scoff and a laugh as his companion nodded also sarcastically. "Play ye cards right, and you jus' might make gun crew captain." Zeke aka Giles nodded his head, and raised up from his chair and shifted his sword belt. He snorted and wiped the side of his nose, playing the role like a street poet. "Mabbe tis time for a change, eh?" He raised both eyebrows and smirked at his companion, who responded. "You sure?" Giles nodded. "If I aint impress 'im, there's always remainin' on THE MERMAID." Giles left his seat and moved over to cue up to interview with CAPTAIN FLINT. Giles, with swagger dips his head in greeting; two fingers aligning to brow and showing a casual but proper salute. "Giles Everett, sir. Gunner. I heard you're lookin' fer a few men?"
Captain Flint	THE TAVERN Maaka fits in better than she might initially imagine. In fact, she's not the only cyborg here. Once she makes it past the crowd at the tavern, she can see that one of the tables in the tavern features a musclebound, heavily chromed up cueball locked in an arm-wrestling match with what can only be described as a magical wooden robot. The working girls at the brothel next door seem a little too disappointed when she turns them down--the place is probably the source of every information leak on the island. Flint affixes Maaka with a scrutinizing look. He doesn't have to tell her to take a seat--he simply nods to acknowledge her presence once she does. The captain turns his head to speak a brief dismissal a would-be pirate seated across from him. "Mr. Silver, down on the beach, will get you settled." The recruit is painfully green, barely an adult. Some would argue that a scrupulous captain wouldn't take him, but the way the young man's face lights up means it'd be hard to talk him out of it now. He hangs there, for a second, hoping for some further acknowledgment from the captain. After a second or two of none, he offers a slightly embarrassed word of thanks, leaving the table to the two of them. Flint takes a drink. "I was hoping to have some allies by," he says. "You'd be more than welcome as part of the vanguard. Ever been part of a boarding party?" Morgan is met with the bartender, a brown skinned man coated, as everyone here is, in a thin layer of sweat and grime. He shakes his head. "You're late for that one," he says. "Walrus men already took that prize. Sailed right into Boston, helped him raid the place. Some of 'em came in here the other day to piss the prize away. Whoever this Foreigner is, he's..." The bartender looks left, then right. He then makes the international sign for 'rich as hell,' one thumb and one forefinger rubbed together. 'Giles' receives a look, directly in the eyes. Were it not for that eye contact one might think the captain were looking through him. "I am," he says with a nod. "We took a hefty prize on our last hunt, but at great cost. You're in luck, Mr. Everett--I have a particular need to replenish my gun crews. Are you accustomed to off-world technology?" The disguise seems to be working, at least.
Captain Flint	THE BEACH Josuke's /method/ of arrival is surprisingly well-received. When there's airships and spaceships and modern day pirates right alongside the 18th century pirates, an invisible motor isn't so big a deal. What IS a big deal is that there's some apparently rich guy, with a funny accent, coming up all on his own to an overworked crew of pirates. This is not received well. Within minutes there's a crowd gathered, the workers momentarily pausing in their work and to enter Gauge the Threat Mode. "'oo the fuck are you?" spits the ever-popular Turk. Josuke will remember him as the guy who seriously believes that Flint's love interest is a witch who controls him through his severed heart, which she keeps in a box. As the Walrus' resident troublemaker, it's his interrogative that starts up a chorus of similar questions, followed by the rattling of sabers and distressingly modern weaponry. That is, until Silver intervenes. "It's just Josuke, you fucking idiots." Just like that, the unrest is quelled, even though a good deal of them clearly don't remember him from last year. Apparently, Silver's word is Just That Good now, which is funny, considering this time last year most of the crew (correctly) thought he was the guy who nearly fucked them out of the largest haul in history. "Sorry about that. They're on edge since the Foreigner thing." Leaning upon his crutch, he gestures to George, nodding in agreement with the Flotilla captain. "He's the only smith in town who'll touch that metal plating, and you can see how far the men have gotten without him. Please," he says, throwing up his hand in near exasperation. "Be my guest." With Josuke and George both working their magic upon the ship, the progress is dramatically better. Crazy Diamond's ability can work in tandem with George's technical prowess to drag flotsam lost on the mooring back into place where possible, and reforge the reinforced plating where reverting it would take too long. Josuke in particular might be able to tell that fixing it with Crazy Diamond is taking as long as it is because the pieces are /very/ far away--as far as Boston, and not even this world's Boston to boot. With the both of them giving it a go, it should be in working order by the end of the day, although that's assuming they don't take any breaks.
Alexis Maaka	Maaka claps the younger pirate on the shoulder. "Good luck, mate." She says offhandedly, before removing her hat. Getting all situated, Maaka nods to Flint. "Few times. Once was in space." Only in the multiverse does something like this make any sense as a statement. "I can't say I got experience with wooden ships, but I'm a quick learner." She says, popping her neck. As she eyes people amid the bar, Maaka raises her eyebrow. Wooden robots, cueballs with cybernetics...man, the multiverse has infected this place more than she's expected.
Josuke Higashikata	Josuke notices George at the call of greeting, and waves in his direction. "Hi!" he offers brightly. As for being able to fix the Walrus? "That's what I was gonna try to do, yeah. It hasn't been years or anything, has it? It gets harder to fix the longer time has passed. What happened? It looks like someone hit it with armor piercing shells." Now, when he's not recognized by the crew, Josuke seems a little surprised. "I know the saying 'clothes make the man', but c'mon." He's at least partly teasing, it's worth noting. Apparently his hairstyle isn't as distinctive as he'd originally thought! No big deal, though. If they're 'not worried' enough to seriously consider him suspicious and not instantly realize he's from outside this world, then he's done SOMETHING right! Getting over onto the ship shouldn't be hard; even if he needs to use Crazy Diamond to pitch him over. He nods to Silver's words though. "I noticed there's not really a lot of people helping out. I'm no sailor, I admit, but it looks like you're understaffed. I'll do what I can to help," he offers. And yes, he will do exactly that. Crazy Diamond can pull in the broken pieces of the metal plating, and then restore the pieces to fully functional status, so that George can weld them back on. Though yes, Crazy Diamond will have to catch the pieces, for a couple of reasons. One, FLYING METAL SHARDS is kind of a hazard -- "HEADSUP!" Josuke will call out in warning, if the pieces get too close to someone. And two? The metal plates are too heavy for him to lift, but his Stand is stronger. And as he waits for a plate to reform, he notes how long it's taking. "...So whatever happened, it happened REALLY far away?" He's probably asking George this, since Silver probably doesn't have time to answer. Also they're probably not in the same part of the ship.
Morgan Berselius	'Rich as hell.' Is the hunger for material wealth enough to incite men to share the company of monsters? Probably. It's more likely than he knows, in fact. The paladin's eyes darken with rage, then close as he releases a long, tired breath. "Any idea where I can find any of these... Walrus-men," Morgan asks canting his head to one side. He's... Not entirely sure what a walrus-man looks like. He imagines something somewhere between a walrus and a man, and quietly dismisses the thought as just straight up silliness. Little does he know that he's... Probably closer to a whole bunch of those Walrus-Men than he realizes.
Starbound Flotilla	"Ohhhhh, yeah, we're a long way from Boston out here." George says, keeping clear of the pieces until they're well and truly fit together. "Depending on who you ask, the kind of place and time where you deserve what you get, but in my opinion? Nah. I only know a little though! There's a rumor mill you know, and it cranks hard. Little over this way? --There we go, that's the good stuff." George says, guiding Josuke's Stand-lifts and getting to welding. "Watch out, or specifically, don't watch the welding. Unless you want cool goggles. You want cool goggles? It'll mess up your /style/ real bad though." His rapid welding work ought to get at least the metal hull sections solved out pretty quick. "I really gotta get these guys acclimated to this kind of business. Or maybe I could get some of the steeltrees growing around here so people try out carpentry with the metal, that might be a better bridge. What'dya think, Silver? Think there's any chance we've been /alienating/ people with the weirder techs? I could conference with Biteblade and Pavo and get you guys stuff that's a little easier on the advertisements."
Ezekiel Gravez	Giles gets to work being involved with the Gunner's Captain, and establishing his place on the crew. He doesn't try to distinguish himself in any other way than pure accuracy and efficiency. He works closely with two more men, whom have worked together for a while. Giles's skill, keen senses, and instinct for destruction could easily get the gun crew noticed. During drills, Giles and his cannon group are able to get in a few more moments to increase the capacity for combat. His near mathematical computational ability works well, sizing every moment and scenario in a matter of seconds, and relays to his cybereyes. In his downtime, he writes and entire nanoprogram that takes stock of current weather patterns and their affect on ballistic drift. No sitation can be quantified every single pre-arranged volley, because the things that are variable exist moment to moment. However, the program quickly starts to work the moment the NCU platform is engaged. A scant second to survey the field, and already the trajectory and angle is computed and scrawled across the marquee. Every command from top deck gets relayed loudly and proudly, as the gun crews practice shots. Aiming is nearly perfected, at least to one side of the gunner's deck. Giles is proud, but secretly keeps it mostly to himself knowing that its better to make the rest of the crew look good in order for a proper battle to unfold. Everyone is on the team, and even men of meat and bone need to be given proper due. Being a cyborg (and an incredibly subtle one at that) he almost had to handicap himself. He didn't even need the cyberdeck for this kind of war. It was natural to instinct, but projecting algorithms wouldn't hurt his chances. Giles keeps his distance though, providding support to CAPTAIN FLINT and THE WALRUS as any crew should, given the circumstance (but with a little extra edge). There might even be a moment where George gets close to see Giles face but he turns away hoping not to be too terribly recognized. A little extra dirt under the nails, and some rubbed into his cheeks. Let the hair matt out a little. Cover the lower part of the mouth with his headwrap. Things can be used to camouflage himself, and he hopes the ruse holds.
Captain Flint	TAVERN "I imagine it's not too different. Most of the time," says Flint to Maaka, "You won't even need to use your guns." He gestures idly to the heavy coat which conceals them. "At least, not in the waters around this part of the Superplanet. If you raise the Black at the right time, the prize surrenders without a fight. It's different for larger prizes, whose crews can't afford surrender, and for those outside of these waters, of course." If Zeke aims to meet the rest of the gun crew, he is given approximate directions to the Walrus encampment on the beach. Specifically, he is directed to Doctor Howell's medical tent, where a good portion of them are. That... possibly does not bode well for him, although there are at least a few who escaped the previous hunt without incident. Those few are currently engaged in repairs where their skills allow, or heavy lifting where they lack the capacity. There won't be much opportunity to build rapport, but he can at least offer his assistance in the day's work and get to know them in that way. Morgan is pointed right to Captain Flint, just as Zeke leaves. "That's their captain," says the bartender. "Right there, with that big fellow and the one looks like Anne Bonny's big sister." He motions to the departing 'Giles' (Zeke) and Maaka in turn. But he doesn't let Morgan go just like that. "Listen, boy--that ship's not a young man's ship. I know you probably got all kinds of ideas about making your fortune with him, but he goes through crew faster'n anyone else on this island. If I were you, I'd try Naft." He nods towards a captain with a /much/ smaller potential recruitment pool, seated by himself with nothing but a shock-white, grandpa-ish beard and a mug of rum to keep him company. "I know he ain't the scariest, but your odds're a lot better with him, you ask me." If Morgan does approach Flint, he'll find that there's an open seat. He'll also find that, in addition to not being a literal Walrus-man, the captain appears entirely human, without any sort of magical aura, cybernetic enhancements, or genetic tinkering about him. Nevertheless, should he attract the captain's attention, there is an undeniable weight to his gaze; an intensity that suggests Morgan is not being looked at, he is being analyzed and measured. "No," Flint will state with finality in his English baritone, should the young paladin approach.
Captain Flint	BEACH Silver chuckles at Josuke's joke. "Two or three weeks," says Silver. "Believe me, if it'd been years, these fucks would've long since tried to run off with the Urca gold. Probably would have died trying to take it from the fort, but tried nonetheless." He nods when Josuke mentions the amount of crew missing. Last year, when he'd assisted Flint in taking the Urca, the Stand user would've counted at least fifty among the crew. There's less than half of that, now. As expected, Silver has his hands full. He's scarcely done explaining that to Josuke when a fight breaks out over at the food line, and he has to hobble hastily through the sand to get to them and defuse the situation. That's... another thing that wasn't there last year. Last year, Silver definitely had both legs. Now he's not only missing one, but he's apparently some sort of authority among the crew now instead of just a barely tolerated hanger-on! How time flies. The repair process is not only greatly sped up by Josuke and George, it's an example of three completely different disciplines working in tandem. Turk seems to remember Josuke after a moment of observation of that rad hairstyle--and he relays the warning cry to those crew members too far out to hear Josuke. This results in a complex, but efficient system where Josuke drags the metal plating back to the ship, George welds it into place, and the crew, between ducking their heads, manages to fasten freshly cut planks to the metal plating, and shortly thereafter chemically treat them. If George and Josuke keep up this pace, the metal plating should be done within an hour or two, leaving plenty of daylight to get the exterior wooden facade up, and repair the sails. Silver comes hobbling back up the beach after defusing the fight, slightly out of breath. He shakes his head in response to George. Between breaths, "At first, absolutely. Now it's just Turk, and, well..." He shrugs. "You know him." He nods up at the repair crew. For every two old-fashioned hammers, there's a stolen modern, futuristic, or magical equivalent, making for a cacophony of repair. "I don't think it's a problem. But... Flint did want me to bring up the possibility of a certain... upgrade." He turns around, then nods--not at anything on the Walrus, or even on the beach, but at a passing, magically powered wooden airship overhead. "After Boston he realized there were certain weakness which should be addressed," says the quartermaster in a window-shopping kind of tone.
Josuke Higashikata	"Boston? Oh, that explains it," Josuke notes, as Crazy Diamond holds the steel plate, waiting for it to reform as the pieces slowly 'trickle' in and join to the piece. He gives George a confused look though, at the rest of what he says. "People only 'deserve what they get' when they're doing something wrong. But... rumors. There's usually a little bit of truth in them anyway." He IS smart enough to look away during the actual welding; he knows a little about welding, yeah. Messing up Josuke's style? OH NO! Fortunately, Josuke does understand that it's a little more important to protect his vision than his style. Goggles can be taken off, and hair can be fixed. Blindness can't be undone. "Eh... if you have an extra pair, I can take the temporary hit to my cool," he agrees. Though it's with obvious reluctance. He does however note, "Not going blind is pretty high on my list of priorities. I got a comb and some stuff to fix my hair." Silver's mention of how long ago it was gets a nod. "Feels about like a couple weeks' worth, yeah. Maybe a little more, since the pieces have to come in from so far away," he notes. Though he makes a bit of a face at Silver's mention of the men possibly running off with the gold. "Why would they --" Then he pauses, the light of understanding taking the place of the confusion. "...That's right, I forgot..." Josuke is still chasing away those silly thoughts that all pirates are honorable thieves, those made popular by modern fiction. Josuke does notice the leg -- or rather, the lack thereof -- and frowns a bit. More like 'pouts', really; he has that kind of face. "A lot must have happened between then and now," he observes. Now, he also stays quiet about the flight... mostly. He does want to say one thing about that. "Oh uh. I probably don't have to say this, but hydrogen might not be a good idea." Yeah, even HE knows about the Hindenburg.
Morgan Berselius	The bartender points at the man he wants. Morgan's head twitches to one side, his gaze affixing on the most dangerous pirate in the room. "Thanks," he says, but...! The man has a warning for him. Words born from the concern of a man who has seen far too many throw away their youths and their lives chasing a dream on the high seas. For a moment, the paladin's eyes soften, he reaches for the barman's shoulder, who would find a sensation of... calm washing over him. For at least a little while-- or perhaps a little longer than a little while-- his dreams would be calm and pleasant, sanctuaries from the darkness he sees in this place every day. "You are a good man," Morgan says, "I appreciate the warning. But I'm not looking to join a crew today." He looks to the bearded man in the corner, then smirks, "But I might consider a few jobs here and there. Thanks. Really" He pulls away, then, and makes his way over to Flint's table. Some part of him is glad that he's not literally some kind of man-walrus. That's... Reassuring, at least. But the pirate is having none of it! Morgan pauses for a moment then approaches regardless, locking the captain's scrutinizing gaze with his own. Without missing another beat, he settles into the chair and crooks his fingers together over the table. "I understand that you had recent business with a man called the Foreigner," Morgan says, his voice sounding every bit like it belongs to that body, but there's an... undertone to it. An age that shouldn't /be/ there. "I'd like you to tell me what you know about him."
Alexis Maaka	Maaka nods. "Right. I'm always expecting a rough op, might be nice if some of them turn out to be clean and quick." She says, as she hears someone come on over. "Not that I'm against the rough shit, 's why I'm askin' for a spot." And then, Morgan's directed the table's way. Morgan starts asking about some Foreigner guy, someone Maaka's not at all aware of. Instead of pulling a piece immediately to prevent this kid from confronting a client, she instead covertly reaches for her shotgun beneath the table, just in case this escalates. All the while, she gazes at the kid with befuddled annoyance, wondering just what the boy's thinking with this stunt.
Starbound Flotilla	"Huuuuuuh." George spends a little while stroking his beard into various shapes, some of which are a little beyond what one would expect of its shape. After he finishes this contemplative process, he snaps and points directly at Silver. "There's a lot of old Avian sky-pirates, you know." He says, widening his grin a little. "Pavo used to be one of 'em. It's one of the ways the Grounded get by, they've got designs for some pretty plug-and-play kinda flight systems, ought to be about as easy to manage as a sail." He looks at the state of the sails themselves. "So, uh, not all that much, but hey, better than some jet engines or whatever, right?" He sheepishly yanks out a pair of goggles, tossing them to Josuke. "Not gonna keep much style without good eyesight, right?" He says, before finishing up the current plate. "Yeah, Boston was a real shitshow from what I heard. And what I heard wasn't much, just a lot of shouting on the radio. Boy though, you got a real optimistic view of things. Or one that's real harsh, if I was playing games with your wording, but nah, I'm seeing positivity. Tons happened, though, you're right. The big Prospekt fiasco, the business with Priscilla's painting, tons of stuff. You should stick around more! You were great with the Urca, having you around for some of the hot water the Walrus lands in would be real good."
Captain Flint	BEACH Silver nods, when Josuke has that realization. His mention of hydrogen gets a blank look, a sort of 'I trust that you know what you mean, because I don't' look. Nevertheless, he raises his crutch, grunting with discomfort as the primitive 18th century prosthesis puts pressure on his wound. "We were thinking something along those lines," says the quartermaster. His crutch is pointed at what is arguably a sailing ship quite close to those native to this Earth, different only for the great propellers which hold it in the air. "Something as close to what Flint's used to as possible." Which, as it happens, is good, because George seems to be thinking along the same lines. Silver rubs his chin. He's starting to grow a beard, but it looks like that's more from just not bothering to shave than any purposeful effort. He's more of a Mustache Guy. "I'll let Flint know," he decides. "Maybe you, he and Pavo could get together soon and look at some designs?" Time passes. The sun is beginning its descent, but there's still daylight left. Josuke and George have all of the Walrus' metal skeleton repaired, and the repair crew isn't far behind them when it comes to fastening and treating the wooden facade. What's more, Crazy Diamond's repair ability seems to have fixed a good deal of damage to the Walrus' interior--evidenced by shards of metal and the occasional plank disappearing within the ship rather than fastening to the outside. All that remains now can be finished by dinner time. As Silver informs them, the remaining damage concerns the infuriatingly named topsails, which aren't actually the topmost sails, and the topgallants, which are the sails immediately above /those/ sails. They suffered heavy burns during the fight and are almost completely in tatters. Ordinarily, they'd have to be thrown out and replaced--for a pretty penny. The Walrus quartermaster, who is kind enough to direct the both of them to a makeshift elevator for scaling the beached ship, hopes they'll be able to repair the sails without all that fuss. And, on the topic of Hot Water, Silver is reminded. "You know, I could say the same for you--both of you. Flint was hoping you'd be by to help with repairs. There's a prize he wants to take, but it'll be difficult, especially with so many new crew members. I don't know if we'd be able to do it without you--and I'd make sure you were compensated fairly."
Captain Flint	TAVERN The bartender is assuaged, both by Morgan's words of kindness, and by his soothing aura. "Well, that's a relief," he sincerely remarks--though he can't hide the confusion of why a young man would otherwise brave the company of the New World's worst pirate. Flint gives Maaka a wary glance. The fingers of the hand currently upon the table raise slightly, revealing his palm to her in a subtle 'easy' gesture. Morgan can catch this, especially with how the rings upon those fingers glint in the dim lighting of the crowded tavern. This young man is more than he seems--enough to at least justify a response. The captain shrugs. "Not much," he admits freely. "I know he's the legend of some historical figure made manifest. As the name might suggest, I believe that legend may have somehow been twisted, made alien. Hence the name." The captain drinks the last of his rum, pushing the pewter mug aside. "I'm a man of letters, myself, and I believe he's of the late 19th century, judging by the uniforms of his men. He's a formidable naval strategist, and possessed of a fleet." Flint chuckles mirthlessly. "I'd advise against moving on him at sea, without one of your own." He raises a hand to signal to one of the serving girls for more rum, offering to buy one for Maaka if she'd like. Morgan doesn't receive this offer, owing to his apparent age. "Even then you'd have his... men to contend with. If one could call them that. I assume fighting him's why you approached me, if not to sail with me." He pauses... then smiles. "Apologies, by the way," offers the captain in a tone that dares to approach amiable not a minute after he'd given that stern warning. It sounds downright natural. "There's a lot of young men your age eager to throw their lives away." Maaka will note the would-be pirate Flint signed on a few minutes prior is only a few years this boy's senior--his altruism apparently has its limits.
Alexis Maaka	Willing to defer to Flint, Maaka slowly releases her hold on the hidden weapon. She relaxes in her seat, cocking an eyebrow. "Some kinda Servant? Heard of those. Fought alongside and against 'em. They're tough customers." She says warily, and takes note of Flint's words. He's got experience with this guy, alright. She'll accept rum, gladly, and she takes a deep swig of the sugary stuff. "Okay, maybe not all the hooch 'round here's completely awful." She decides to herself, having another swig. For what it's worth, she got started at a young age too. That said, kids in combat always had a tendency to wig her out.
Josuke Higashikata	Josuke catches the goggles and puts them on. If that causes any messing up of his hair, he'll fix it later. "Totally," he agrees, to the mention of needing his vision to keep good style. Though the words of him being not there for some of the other trouble that's happened gets a sheepish look. "I've... well, there's a world out there where almost all the gods have kind of... turned evil." He pauses, thinks about that for a moment. "I guess... they're not really 'evil', just... being really super demanding, and then there's something else going on. These outsider-type things are trying to kick out the gods and change the world to they way they want it. It got kinda personal with me because I felt the good side of the sun god still around, so... I've been pretty extensively trying to figure out a way to fix that." Hopefully the crew are getting used to the stuff zipping around as it's being fixed with Crazy Diamond's repair abilities. Josuke really doesn't have any control over how or where stuff flies in when the restoration kicks in! As for the sails? That's part of why he came over to help when he saw what a state the ship was in. One thing he does know about ships like these is that the sails are made of a very specific kind of cloth, and a LOT of it would be needed to replace sails as burnt and damaged as these. His restoration abilities should be able to repair those sails and save Flint a lot of money! Silver's mention of a prize that Flint's wanting to take gets Josuke's attention. "I don't mind helping him out, not at all." He's not going to put conditions on it; Flint's been as good as his word so far, and things are rarely as simple as 'this is right, that is wrong'. Also yes. When he's done, he's going to fix his hair again. He's brought a small tin of hair-styling stuff and his comb, like he usually does, and will use them to fix whatever damage got done to his 'do.
Morgan Berselius	When Morgan had heard this Walrus Man was in cahoots with some kind of weird fishman who turns people into other fishmen, he was concerned that he was... Also, some kind of fishman. Or at the very least, the kind to not share much about a fellow buccaneer. That's a thing, right? Honor among thieves? Morgan retains his poker face. It helps that it's so dark in here. "It's no problem," the paladin says, a smile of his own working its way across his face, "I understand. It's easy to make mistakes when you're young and you don't realize just how long you'll need to live with the consequences." He casts a longing gaze at the rum floating around near a variety of young barmaids and fights back the urge to sigh. "I appreciate your candor, though; I admit I was somewhat worried when I heard about what happened in Boston. But opportunity is hard to pass up, yeah? Do you happen to know what he was after there? That Foreigner, I mean." "Still, the fact that he has such a large following is... Disconcerting. I wonder if that has anything to do with the force that... Twisted him, you say? Mmn." Still, a naval strategist of the 19th century. That's a good start to find out more. There's a beat. Morgan glances toward Maaka and seems to realize... Something. At least, his eyes go wide in a way that indicates that he's suddenly remembered something important. Maybe he left his stove on at home? "Oh, sorry, I've been so focused on the whole... Fishman pirate thing, I forgot." He leans forward with a smile and an outstretched hand to the both of the two Concordites, "Morgan Berselius. I guess you could say that I hunt monsters, among other things. Can't really stomach a crew like the Foreigner's running rampant and plucking people out of house and home. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Captain Flint and...?" He's looking at Maaka now. Who are you, pretty lady?
Alexis Maaka	The cyborg regards Morgan with confusion before realizing she hasn't given her name either. Flint knows, that kind of made this simple. "Alexis Maaka, I shoot problems until they stop being problems." She says absently in between gulps of rum. Ordering another round, Maaka folds her arms. "Sorry I can't be much help compared to Flint, I only just heard of the bloke this evenin'." She shrugs a shoulder, the look in her obviously artificial eyes apologetic to a neutral degree. Those eyes of hers are way too lifelike, yet it's not like humans naturally have golden tints. They're cybernetic, for sure.
Starbound Flotilla	George whistles a bit at Josuke. "Don't tell Pavo about the god stuff. Between you and me, kiddo, her whole 'I'm gonna be a god to spite bad gods' shtick is putting even me off. But hey! You'd be surprised how much profit you can get out of a place with a solid abundance of pillars of salt, it's not all bad!" He laughs a little bit at that one, as he often does about his own profoundly awful jokes. He also clambers up onto the ship over scaffolds with the clumsy grace of finely aged agility, and up the elevator with the relaxation of finely aged not-caring-about-things, before getting to work. The sails are going to be very much Josuke's work here, because George is far more familiar with space hulls than anything that came out of the age of sail, so he'll have to depend on his fashionable friend here. While he does, he explains to Silver: "Yeah, Pavo used to run with a crew that used stuff like that. Big propellers, right? I never really understood /how/, but we've got some stuff we can put together to fit the Walrus for the air if that's what you're after. Pretty sure Pavo's got the coordinates of the wreck of her old airship somewhere, we can salvage that." Then comes the offer. "This the Carolinian matter you're thinking of bringing Josuke in on, or another new job, Silver?" He says, quirking an eyebrow up and locking a grin into place in that way that gently shows he's attentive and serious while also making sure to look like he might be joking if he needs to pass it off as one.
Captain Flint	TAVERN Flint nods. Yeah, gotta be a Servant. "I believe 'Foreigner' may be the name of his Class." He's silent for a moment. Something is bouncing around in that mind of his, but he won't say what. It doesn't look like a pleasant thought, however. His expression only darkens when Morgan makes a comment about the dangers of being young and stupid. "Isn't it ever," he bitterly muses. Morgan's question is at least given an honest response. "Recruits," says the captain with grim certainty. That's why the man was taking people from house and home. "One last thing you should know about him is that he doesn't consider himself a pirate, nor his crew. In his mind, he's an officer of the American navy. Even the more mutated members of his crew seem to place at least ritual importance on the chain of command." He pauses, bringing a hand up to stroke his chin. "If you would go after him, know this, Mr. Berselius. There are any number of monstrous things in the Multiverse, but he is perhaps deserving of that word in the most literal sense. Alien, foreign, in a fundamental... primal way." His brow furrows. "A way that sets the animal within all men to pacing about its cage and chewing at its restraints." He finishes his rum, and pays for his and Maaka's. He strides over to her and places a hand upon her shoulder. "I'm heading to the encampment to speak with the new recruits. When you're finished here, meet me there. There's a prize I've a mind to capture, and I'll need an experienced boarder." With that, he is gone, walking that Do Not Fuck With Me walk. Those crowding the tavern know better than to stand in his way.
Captain Flint	BEACH Silver has the look of someone who might know what's being talked about. His brows raise with interest as Josuke mentions where he's been the past year. "Creation? Or some /other/ world where the gods are bastards?" Silver's never been--but who knows? Maybe Flint will find some reason to go some day. A world like that's likely ripe for their kind of business. Josuke's acceptance of the offer should bring some measure of reassurance to Silver, but it doesn't. Perhaps that's cause for concern. "Alright," says the quartermaster. "I'll let him know." George, on the other hand, gets a confused look when Silver overhears what Pavo's been up to. She wants to be a god? "Jesus, I thought she was just a pirate." He huffs in amused bewilderment. The mention of propellers brings him back to earth. He nods--that will work! "A new job," he says. "The French are colonizing Saint Vincent, but Flint says it's three years earlier than it's otherwise supposed to happen. If we leave within the week, we can sail out to Antigua and intercept the colony ships. They'll be heavily defended, but..." Silver runs a hand through his hair hesitantly. He sighs. "He wants those supplies for Nassau."
Captain Flint	April 1705 "What is this exercise intended to prove, lieutenant?" The dull roar of the harbor and the impassioned shouting of the crowd force Hamilton to speak up. The air is thick with tension, the smell of the sea, and of the myriad imports brought in by England's burgeoning mercantile economy. Bells ring, gulls cry, waves slap against stone piers. "You want to understand why piracy flourishes in the West Indies," the officer explains. "I'm about to show you." A gallows looms over both men, each one forced to look up at the spectacle. All around them, the crowd hollers and clamors. "You seen one of these before?" "I'm afraid I haven't, no," says Hamilton. More formal business has forced the lord into a traditional powdered wig. Like the officer's natural hair, this white wig is tied into a ponytail at the back. His attire today is also a tad more elaborate; a coat of red with gold trim, rather than his modest grey attire some days past. Upon the platform of the gallows, there stand three men. A judge, in powdered wig, black robe and cravat. An executioner, in a smock with a black hood to obscure his face. And in clothes which speak to utter poverty and destitution, stained with dirt and grime, the accused. His hands and feet are bound in heavy irons as he awaits the noose. "Who is he?" asks Hamilton. "Davey Someone-or-Other," says the officer with a shrug. "High seas piracy, treason, so on and so forth. Same as the last, same as the next." The judge, reading from a list of Davey's offenses, makes a few gestures, too far away for the wind to carry his words above the din of the crowd. "He's being asked if he wants to confess," explains the officer. "Begging forgiveness in the eyes of God and Queen Anne." Davey looks out over the crowd which currently stands gathered before him, shouting demands for his punishment above one another. When the judge finishes his request, the wild-haired pirate offers his response. "SUCK MY COCK!" This incites an uproar in the crowd, a brief tide of raised fists and bellowed indignance. "I assume that was a no," Hamilton dryly utters to the officer. The officer nods, and can't hide a sardonic smirk, try as he might. "This is the lesson," concludes Hamilton as the noose is slipped around Davey's neck by the executioner. "The pirates of New Providence Island are incorrigible. Dedicated to mayhem. To attempt to address this subject is doomed to defeat from the outset." The officer's smile fades, becoming wan as he shakes his head. "It's not him I wanted you to see. It's them." Davey is pushed off of the platform, his body plummeting in freefall before the sickening snap sends him bouncing at the end of the rope. The crowd goes wild, cries of "no mercy!" and other such delighted howls for blood erupting all around them. Thomas blanches, looking around at his constituents with a shocked grimace. "Them," says the officer again. "Civilization needs its monsters," he affirms with a nod. Hamilton takes a moment to process this, his brow furrowing as the jeers continue to fly. "...you think Whitehall wants piracy to flourish in the Bahamas?" "No, I don't think they want it, but I think they're aware of the cost associated with trying to fight it. And I think that /that/ sound," opines the officer with a nod towards the dead pirate swinging in the breeze. "Travels. You're an educated man, my lord, but I think it worth reminding you that in most cases, a man trying to change the world fails for one simple reason." Both of the officer's hands rest in the pockets of his coat. With a weak smile and a nod towards the crowd, he states, "Everyone else."