03-07-2010, 12:42 PM
Thin spears of setting sunlight shone through the cabin’s numerous windows, slicing across the floor in numerous, uneven bars of illumination. They gave a faint glow to an otherwise dim room. As the ship lifted and dropped over the wave crests, and the angles of the room changed in respect to the sun, the light danced and dipped over the quarter’s various features; there were chests and artifacts, gifts and those sorts of things, littered around the edges of the room. In the center of the cabin was a very large, wooden desk covered with maps, and compasses, and other navigational instruments. Also on the escritoire was a small basket brimming with fresh, green apples.
It was a very peaceful environment; it was so relaxing, in fact, that the man in the three-cornered hat slumped over the desk continued to sleep like a child despite the midday raucous of the crew members outside on the main deck.
The smell of rich mahogany filled the cabin, as if the whole framework of the room, if not simply the elegant desk, had been recently carved from the rich, rot-resisting timber. Another aroma was present as well, and seemed to filter in through the slightly-opened glass-windows; it was a therapeutic and tranquil emanation, although it stung the nostrils a bit at first. It was distinct and yet the now-half-awake man could not put a finger on what the smell was . . .
“Hmmm,” Trafford moaned through his semi-opened mouth, a small pool of saliva was beginning to form on the desktop below. He could taste it, the familiar essence – it danced around on his taste buds. Then, suddenly, he had it; he knew what it was; it was salt water.
His eyes snapped open and, startled, he pushed off the desk and his tall armchair slid backwards and slammed against the wall behind him. Immediately he leapt from the piece of leather furniture. How could he be near salt water? That meant the ocean, or the sea, and all that he could remember was a coffee shop and then . . .
“Robots,” he whispered with widened eyes, searching for his former opponent who would not be found. His right hand shot inside of his jacket and towards his Desert Eagle holsters, but they weren’t there; sliding his hand up towards his cigarettes, he noticed they were absent as well. In fact, he did not even have an inner jacket pocket.
“What the hell?” he muttered under his breath. His eyes darted around the foreign room, and then dropped to his clothes. The first thing he noticed was that they were not his own. From what he could tell, he was wearing a very long, navy blue trench coat of sorts, except that there were no buttons and his outfit was far more official and luxurious than anything he had seen in West City.
Eyeing a mirror in the far corner of the room, he raced over towards it and, in only a moment, he was standing before the full-length oval sheet of reflective glass. Confusion immediately became him; it spread across his features until his demeanor was riddled with it.
Standing within the confines of the mirror was an unfamiliar man. He was adorned in a fine pair of black, buckled shoes that covered a pair of high, white stockings that rose just past his knees. The leggings continued beneath a pair of reasonably loose white trousers that had one too many useless buttons around the knees and too much gold stitching. At his waist was a fine black belt, and tucked beneath that was a white tunic – a fancy one with a similar golden stitch. And, about the overcoat, he had been quite right – it was a large, navy blue captain’s jacket with authoritative golden insignias and large wrist cuffs.
My god, he thought, I look exactly like Commodore Norrington from that Pirates movie . . .
Lastly, a tricorn officer’s hat rested atop his head and, wait, what was that beneath the three-cornered headpiece?
“Oh . . . my . . . god,” Trafford muttered through clenched teeth. A white, powdered wig sat atop of his golden-brown locks. He pulled off the hat, gripped the faux hair between his fingers and hurled it onto the floor, before kicking it into the corner and backing away from it slowly. Alexander stared at it for awhile, his cocked eyes gazed disapprovingly at the thing that had rested atop his beautiful, albeit disheveled, hair.
A knock came hurriedly on the door. It was not so much a single knock, but three knocks that came in rapid succession.
“Christ,” Alex shot towards the door; couldn’t he even have a minute to gather his thoughts? Although, by now he had realized that, in all probability, he was the captain of this ship and, as such, he enjoyed certain privileges – but he also held some important responsibilities. He shook his head and sighed, then dashed across the room, collapsed into his stately armchair and began playing with the compasses in an attempt to create a sense of labor, however fake it might be.
“Sir,” the door slowly creaked open and an officer of some kind stepped inside, although Alexander – no, Captain Trafford – did not raise his head to acknowledge the presence. “We've just spotted a pirate ship, ten miles distant. I can't be sure at this range, but it seems to match the description of the one that raided port Solsmoth two months ago. I think that we -”
The young man slowed, and his speech drawled off into silence. Alex lifted his eyes, just barely, so that he could see who his addresser was. Oh shit, of all people . . .
“You?!”
He slowly raised his head and strained his eyes slightly; he was pretending to try and recognize someone that he already knew – how absurd, but it was paramount that he maintained his stately composure. After all, he was Captain Trafford.
“Belle,” he paused for a moment, feigning concentration, “right?”
“Yes,” his newfound ally muttered, appearing hesitant, if only for a moment. The red-haired upstart seemed tense, if not downright pissed.
“Let’s get this over with,” the captain stated, trying to sound bored and unsurprised by the revelation of his teammate.
Trafford opened his desk and searched around for some sort of tobacco-smoking device. He hoped for cigarettes. Instead he found two things, a box of cigars and a pipe. He snatched both, along with a bag of leaf for the pipe and then headed for the door and exited onto the main deck of the ship – his ship.
“They’re boarding! Anybody who even looks like a dirty, barnacle-eating, rum-drinking pirate dies on sight, is that clear, you dirty mongrels?!” One of the navy men screamed as a forward unit of pirates boarded their ship. Trafford shrugged. He didn’t know much about naval battles, but boarding this early seemed amateur – they hadn’t even blasted the hell out of each other yet. What a waste of such neat cannons . . .
The Captain was reclining against the railing on the ship’s far side, putting as much distance between him and the boarding pirates as possible. His temporary comrade, Belle, on the other hand was at the forefront of the battle; his cutlass gleamed against the setting sun, and he waited anxiously for each pirate that swung from the enemy’s deck to his own.
It was not that he was disinterested, per se; he just had no idea what to do. Was the captain supposed to charge in, head first, with his saber brazen in the scorching sun’s reflective light and lead by example? Or should he remain at the rear, perhaps atop the quarter-deck and near the helm, managing the battle.
“I have no idea,” Alex expressed his inner contemplations aloud.
Suddenly he felt a small twitch in the back of his neck, and then in his eye. His brow began to quiver and he could feel his pupils roll into the back of their sockets. A rush swarmed his mind, and a wave of information infiltrated his brain without his consent. It was engaging, it was surreal, it was . . . weird.
And then, in an instant, it was over, and everything was normal. Although, at the same time, nothing was normal. It was strange, but it seemed, without any explanation whatsoever, that he had gained a vast knowledge of sea life.
“That’s odd,” he remarked as he looked about his ship with a newfound perception. He understood everything; the official terminology and the slang, the ranks, and even the layout of the ship was now known to him. It was as if something, or someone, had released age-old information that had been stored in the recesses of his brain, but he could not rationalize how such a thing was possible. There was not much time to think on such things, however, as he had to act; now that he had the knowledge, it made decisions that much easier.
Trafford withdrew his smoking pipe (although he did not know it at the time, the pipe he possessed was a coveted Briar pipe), after already having failed with a cigar, and packed it with the tobacco that was in the bag he had taken from his desk earlier. After a moment he slid the device into the corner of his mouth, and let the ‘bit’ sit between his lips. With a simple wink, the ‘chamber’ lit and he inhaled the sweet tobacco fumes into his lungs.
“Oh, heaven . . .” Alex whispered as he tucked the rest of the leaves into his pocket. Now, with the pipe balanced nicely, his hand slid down towards his elegant saber and to the weapon’s hilt; his long, bony fingers guided themselves beneath the knuckle guard, and rested on the smooth grip. Tightening his hold on the cutlass, the young entertainer took a step forward and pulled the blade from the sheath and held it before him.
“Push them back to their own deck, mates!” Trafford bellowed as he rushed forward, he was surprised at the words that poured from his mouth – it almost sounded like he had some idea as to what he was talking about. “Capture who you can, and kill the rest of these scoundrels!”
As he moved forward his eyes caught the red-headed firebrand. He was parrying a strike from a fancily-dress buccaneer. Belle’s sword caught his opponents and pushed it towards the side, giving the half-saiyan an opportunity that he would not pass up; his knuckles rose fast and collided with the pirate’s cheek bone, sending his foe sprawling across the deck. A random midshipman leapt at the opportunity and immediately detained the outlaw.
Similar happenings occurred across the main deck; only a few pirates had dared to board at the command of some low-level officer, and they were immediately outnumbered by the naval fighting force.
Throughout the skirmish, Alexander had continued to shout orders to his men, directing them with a leadership and a poise that he had not known himself capable of. And all the while he did so with a pipe hanging from the corner of his lips, true to form.
“There!” someone shouted, Trafford thought it to be young Hibiki, but could not be sure, and a cluster of navy men shot their index fingers towards the quarterdeck, an area in the rear of the ship. An onyx haired youth was sprinting across the face of the helm, dodging the desperate grasps of Mister Lynch and making his way towards a dangling rope, one that was attached to a mast on the enemy ship. The mysterious young man, adorned in a crimson bandana, leapt forward and snatched the cable in stride and, in swinging across the widening gap of salty sea water, retreated to the pirate vessel. The battle was over.
“Captain, sir!” a voice erupted from behind Alexander. The captain slowly tilted his head and peered over his shoulder at the man who, according to his rank, was a petty officer aboard the Maiden’s Dream. He nodded, and then the sailor continued.
“All pirates who boarded have been captured, save one, and they have been locked in the brig,” The man spoke formally; his posture was straight as an arrow. Trafford nodded and dismissed the man, who immediately rejoined the crew. They all erupted into a series of glorifying cheers at the expense of the pirates.
“Mister Lynch,” the captain spoke as he ascended the short staircase and arrived at the helm, dismissing any salutes and standing beside Belle (who still seemed to be brooding over the partnership. Trafford could only imagine how he felt about being the captain’s subordinate). “Run out the sweeps, heavy on our port side.”
“Captain?” Mister Lynch questioned as he adjusted the wheel.
“Make sure that we move out in front of the enemy vessel, and then we’ll circle around their bow and fire upon them where they cannot fire back . . .”
“Aye captain,” Lynch replied, this time more enthusiastically.
He may have been mistaken, but for a moment, if only for an instant, Alexander could have sworn that he even caught a glint of excitement in Belle’s blue eyes. And then, an instant after the pair made eye contact, Hibiki turned away and made for the main deck.
“All hands on deck! Make ready the guns!” the tempestuous youth bellowed at the men, who were still embraced in celebration.
Trafford stepped to the side and stood atop the short set of stairs that descended to the main deck. He brushed his fingertips against the bowl of his pipe and tapped it twice, before inhaling a large plume of tobacco smoke. He watched with enthusiasm as the men darted to and fro across the ship deck, sprinting up and down the stairs to the lower levels. The men focused on making ready the starboard guns (Earlier, the two ships had been parallel, with the pirate vessel’s port and the navy vessel’s starboard exposed. Now, as they prepared to wheel around the Black Oyster’s bow the two ships would be facing in the opposite direction – they would be starboard to starboard). The remainder of the crew split, some went to the lowest deck and manned the sweeps, while the rest remained topside and eagerly awaited any attempt to board.
The Maiden’s Dream surged forward and began tilting towards its starboard side, rounding the bow of the pirate vessel. As they maneuvered, Trafford looked over the railing into the gap between the two ships and observed that whatever manner of creature had dwelled there previously returned to the depths.
“Very nice,” he remarked to himself beneath his breath, and then he released a short sigh of relief, a sigh that was accompanied by a fist-pump. One opponent was enough of a hassle.
As they began to round the bow of the slower ship, the captain observed the pirates hurriedly dashing around the ship, trying to ready their own starboard guns as the naval vessel approached their exposed sides.
“Fire the six pounders!” Trafford bellowed, and his eyes widened. He, as usual, had no idea what he was talking about. What in the hell was a six pounder?
Of course the rest of the crew knew what he meant, and the gunners rushed towards the few cannons that resided in the center of the ship. The bow of the enemy ship was a small target, so they would only be able to fire four or five cannons as they rounded the Black Oyster’s point, and those several cannons were known to the sailors as ‘the six pounders.’
“I would never have guessed that you knew anything about sailing.” Belle Hibiki spoke at Alex’s side. His arms were crossed and he still did not look too pleased, but his mannerisms seemed to be improving.
“Well, you forgot one thing mate,” he responded to his ‘partner’ and slowly tilted his head, so that their eyes met. An arrogant smirk was plastered across his face. He removed the pipe from his mouth and held it out in front of him as he continued, “I’m Captain Ace Trafford.”
Belle rolled his eyes as Alex winked and replaced the ‘bit’ of the Briar pipe into the corner of his mouth.
It was a very peaceful environment; it was so relaxing, in fact, that the man in the three-cornered hat slumped over the desk continued to sleep like a child despite the midday raucous of the crew members outside on the main deck.
The smell of rich mahogany filled the cabin, as if the whole framework of the room, if not simply the elegant desk, had been recently carved from the rich, rot-resisting timber. Another aroma was present as well, and seemed to filter in through the slightly-opened glass-windows; it was a therapeutic and tranquil emanation, although it stung the nostrils a bit at first. It was distinct and yet the now-half-awake man could not put a finger on what the smell was . . .
“Hmmm,” Trafford moaned through his semi-opened mouth, a small pool of saliva was beginning to form on the desktop below. He could taste it, the familiar essence – it danced around on his taste buds. Then, suddenly, he had it; he knew what it was; it was salt water.
His eyes snapped open and, startled, he pushed off the desk and his tall armchair slid backwards and slammed against the wall behind him. Immediately he leapt from the piece of leather furniture. How could he be near salt water? That meant the ocean, or the sea, and all that he could remember was a coffee shop and then . . .
“Robots,” he whispered with widened eyes, searching for his former opponent who would not be found. His right hand shot inside of his jacket and towards his Desert Eagle holsters, but they weren’t there; sliding his hand up towards his cigarettes, he noticed they were absent as well. In fact, he did not even have an inner jacket pocket.
“What the hell?” he muttered under his breath. His eyes darted around the foreign room, and then dropped to his clothes. The first thing he noticed was that they were not his own. From what he could tell, he was wearing a very long, navy blue trench coat of sorts, except that there were no buttons and his outfit was far more official and luxurious than anything he had seen in West City.
Eyeing a mirror in the far corner of the room, he raced over towards it and, in only a moment, he was standing before the full-length oval sheet of reflective glass. Confusion immediately became him; it spread across his features until his demeanor was riddled with it.
Standing within the confines of the mirror was an unfamiliar man. He was adorned in a fine pair of black, buckled shoes that covered a pair of high, white stockings that rose just past his knees. The leggings continued beneath a pair of reasonably loose white trousers that had one too many useless buttons around the knees and too much gold stitching. At his waist was a fine black belt, and tucked beneath that was a white tunic – a fancy one with a similar golden stitch. And, about the overcoat, he had been quite right – it was a large, navy blue captain’s jacket with authoritative golden insignias and large wrist cuffs.
My god, he thought, I look exactly like Commodore Norrington from that Pirates movie . . .
Lastly, a tricorn officer’s hat rested atop his head and, wait, what was that beneath the three-cornered headpiece?
“Oh . . . my . . . god,” Trafford muttered through clenched teeth. A white, powdered wig sat atop of his golden-brown locks. He pulled off the hat, gripped the faux hair between his fingers and hurled it onto the floor, before kicking it into the corner and backing away from it slowly. Alexander stared at it for awhile, his cocked eyes gazed disapprovingly at the thing that had rested atop his beautiful, albeit disheveled, hair.
A knock came hurriedly on the door. It was not so much a single knock, but three knocks that came in rapid succession.
“Christ,” Alex shot towards the door; couldn’t he even have a minute to gather his thoughts? Although, by now he had realized that, in all probability, he was the captain of this ship and, as such, he enjoyed certain privileges – but he also held some important responsibilities. He shook his head and sighed, then dashed across the room, collapsed into his stately armchair and began playing with the compasses in an attempt to create a sense of labor, however fake it might be.
“Sir,” the door slowly creaked open and an officer of some kind stepped inside, although Alexander – no, Captain Trafford – did not raise his head to acknowledge the presence. “We've just spotted a pirate ship, ten miles distant. I can't be sure at this range, but it seems to match the description of the one that raided port Solsmoth two months ago. I think that we -”
The young man slowed, and his speech drawled off into silence. Alex lifted his eyes, just barely, so that he could see who his addresser was. Oh shit, of all people . . .
“You?!”
He slowly raised his head and strained his eyes slightly; he was pretending to try and recognize someone that he already knew – how absurd, but it was paramount that he maintained his stately composure. After all, he was Captain Trafford.
“Belle,” he paused for a moment, feigning concentration, “right?”
“Yes,” his newfound ally muttered, appearing hesitant, if only for a moment. The red-haired upstart seemed tense, if not downright pissed.
“Let’s get this over with,” the captain stated, trying to sound bored and unsurprised by the revelation of his teammate.
Trafford opened his desk and searched around for some sort of tobacco-smoking device. He hoped for cigarettes. Instead he found two things, a box of cigars and a pipe. He snatched both, along with a bag of leaf for the pipe and then headed for the door and exited onto the main deck of the ship – his ship.
~~~*~~~
“They’re boarding! Anybody who even looks like a dirty, barnacle-eating, rum-drinking pirate dies on sight, is that clear, you dirty mongrels?!” One of the navy men screamed as a forward unit of pirates boarded their ship. Trafford shrugged. He didn’t know much about naval battles, but boarding this early seemed amateur – they hadn’t even blasted the hell out of each other yet. What a waste of such neat cannons . . .
The Captain was reclining against the railing on the ship’s far side, putting as much distance between him and the boarding pirates as possible. His temporary comrade, Belle, on the other hand was at the forefront of the battle; his cutlass gleamed against the setting sun, and he waited anxiously for each pirate that swung from the enemy’s deck to his own.
It was not that he was disinterested, per se; he just had no idea what to do. Was the captain supposed to charge in, head first, with his saber brazen in the scorching sun’s reflective light and lead by example? Or should he remain at the rear, perhaps atop the quarter-deck and near the helm, managing the battle.
“I have no idea,” Alex expressed his inner contemplations aloud.
Suddenly he felt a small twitch in the back of his neck, and then in his eye. His brow began to quiver and he could feel his pupils roll into the back of their sockets. A rush swarmed his mind, and a wave of information infiltrated his brain without his consent. It was engaging, it was surreal, it was . . . weird.
And then, in an instant, it was over, and everything was normal. Although, at the same time, nothing was normal. It was strange, but it seemed, without any explanation whatsoever, that he had gained a vast knowledge of sea life.
“That’s odd,” he remarked as he looked about his ship with a newfound perception. He understood everything; the official terminology and the slang, the ranks, and even the layout of the ship was now known to him. It was as if something, or someone, had released age-old information that had been stored in the recesses of his brain, but he could not rationalize how such a thing was possible. There was not much time to think on such things, however, as he had to act; now that he had the knowledge, it made decisions that much easier.
Trafford withdrew his smoking pipe (although he did not know it at the time, the pipe he possessed was a coveted Briar pipe), after already having failed with a cigar, and packed it with the tobacco that was in the bag he had taken from his desk earlier. After a moment he slid the device into the corner of his mouth, and let the ‘bit’ sit between his lips. With a simple wink, the ‘chamber’ lit and he inhaled the sweet tobacco fumes into his lungs.
“Oh, heaven . . .” Alex whispered as he tucked the rest of the leaves into his pocket. Now, with the pipe balanced nicely, his hand slid down towards his elegant saber and to the weapon’s hilt; his long, bony fingers guided themselves beneath the knuckle guard, and rested on the smooth grip. Tightening his hold on the cutlass, the young entertainer took a step forward and pulled the blade from the sheath and held it before him.
“Push them back to their own deck, mates!” Trafford bellowed as he rushed forward, he was surprised at the words that poured from his mouth – it almost sounded like he had some idea as to what he was talking about. “Capture who you can, and kill the rest of these scoundrels!”
As he moved forward his eyes caught the red-headed firebrand. He was parrying a strike from a fancily-dress buccaneer. Belle’s sword caught his opponents and pushed it towards the side, giving the half-saiyan an opportunity that he would not pass up; his knuckles rose fast and collided with the pirate’s cheek bone, sending his foe sprawling across the deck. A random midshipman leapt at the opportunity and immediately detained the outlaw.
Similar happenings occurred across the main deck; only a few pirates had dared to board at the command of some low-level officer, and they were immediately outnumbered by the naval fighting force.
Throughout the skirmish, Alexander had continued to shout orders to his men, directing them with a leadership and a poise that he had not known himself capable of. And all the while he did so with a pipe hanging from the corner of his lips, true to form.
“There!” someone shouted, Trafford thought it to be young Hibiki, but could not be sure, and a cluster of navy men shot their index fingers towards the quarterdeck, an area in the rear of the ship. An onyx haired youth was sprinting across the face of the helm, dodging the desperate grasps of Mister Lynch and making his way towards a dangling rope, one that was attached to a mast on the enemy ship. The mysterious young man, adorned in a crimson bandana, leapt forward and snatched the cable in stride and, in swinging across the widening gap of salty sea water, retreated to the pirate vessel. The battle was over.
“Captain, sir!” a voice erupted from behind Alexander. The captain slowly tilted his head and peered over his shoulder at the man who, according to his rank, was a petty officer aboard the Maiden’s Dream. He nodded, and then the sailor continued.
“All pirates who boarded have been captured, save one, and they have been locked in the brig,” The man spoke formally; his posture was straight as an arrow. Trafford nodded and dismissed the man, who immediately rejoined the crew. They all erupted into a series of glorifying cheers at the expense of the pirates.
~~~*~~~
“Mister Lynch,” the captain spoke as he ascended the short staircase and arrived at the helm, dismissing any salutes and standing beside Belle (who still seemed to be brooding over the partnership. Trafford could only imagine how he felt about being the captain’s subordinate). “Run out the sweeps, heavy on our port side.”
“Captain?” Mister Lynch questioned as he adjusted the wheel.
“Make sure that we move out in front of the enemy vessel, and then we’ll circle around their bow and fire upon them where they cannot fire back . . .”
“Aye captain,” Lynch replied, this time more enthusiastically.
He may have been mistaken, but for a moment, if only for an instant, Alexander could have sworn that he even caught a glint of excitement in Belle’s blue eyes. And then, an instant after the pair made eye contact, Hibiki turned away and made for the main deck.
“All hands on deck! Make ready the guns!” the tempestuous youth bellowed at the men, who were still embraced in celebration.
Trafford stepped to the side and stood atop the short set of stairs that descended to the main deck. He brushed his fingertips against the bowl of his pipe and tapped it twice, before inhaling a large plume of tobacco smoke. He watched with enthusiasm as the men darted to and fro across the ship deck, sprinting up and down the stairs to the lower levels. The men focused on making ready the starboard guns (Earlier, the two ships had been parallel, with the pirate vessel’s port and the navy vessel’s starboard exposed. Now, as they prepared to wheel around the Black Oyster’s bow the two ships would be facing in the opposite direction – they would be starboard to starboard). The remainder of the crew split, some went to the lowest deck and manned the sweeps, while the rest remained topside and eagerly awaited any attempt to board.
The Maiden’s Dream surged forward and began tilting towards its starboard side, rounding the bow of the pirate vessel. As they maneuvered, Trafford looked over the railing into the gap between the two ships and observed that whatever manner of creature had dwelled there previously returned to the depths.
“Very nice,” he remarked to himself beneath his breath, and then he released a short sigh of relief, a sigh that was accompanied by a fist-pump. One opponent was enough of a hassle.
As they began to round the bow of the slower ship, the captain observed the pirates hurriedly dashing around the ship, trying to ready their own starboard guns as the naval vessel approached their exposed sides.
“Fire the six pounders!” Trafford bellowed, and his eyes widened. He, as usual, had no idea what he was talking about. What in the hell was a six pounder?
Of course the rest of the crew knew what he meant, and the gunners rushed towards the few cannons that resided in the center of the ship. The bow of the enemy ship was a small target, so they would only be able to fire four or five cannons as they rounded the Black Oyster’s point, and those several cannons were known to the sailors as ‘the six pounders.’
“I would never have guessed that you knew anything about sailing.” Belle Hibiki spoke at Alex’s side. His arms were crossed and he still did not look too pleased, but his mannerisms seemed to be improving.
“Well, you forgot one thing mate,” he responded to his ‘partner’ and slowly tilted his head, so that their eyes met. An arrogant smirk was plastered across his face. He removed the pipe from his mouth and held it out in front of him as he continued, “I’m Captain Ace Trafford.”
Belle rolled his eyes as Alex winked and replaced the ‘bit’ of the Briar pipe into the corner of his mouth.
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