The boy slips through the doors, noise washing over him, threatening to sweep him back into the street.
He twists under the maid, soliciting a curse as she struggles with the tray of drinks like a helmsman in a hurricane.
The piano punctuates the rise and fall of the conversation. It is lending halting, jaunty pace to the room, lurching in time with some of the less hearty patrons.
The boy lurks by a wall, eyes flicking over the crowd, back and forth. Suddenly they fix and the lad is off like a jackrabbit, dodging easily between the lumbering drunks.
He comes at last to a table in the corner. A gristled man, with a tangle of dirty black hair set with sunken, hallowed eyes for a face sits drinking something with a potent, almost metallic scent. The drops that fall on the table sizzle, scoring the already pocked surface. His grey dirty coat shows some signs of once being a bright navy, but the grip of time and wear has not been kind to the once shining medals and brilliant thread.
The gnarled hand sets down the drink. His gaze remains fixed, seeing past the table and floor in front of it, bending around the very fabric of time into a world of shame and disgrace. The drink is quickly finished. His frown pivots slowly, seeking out the girl who can bring more of the sweet distraction. Instead it finds the boy. If there was once wonder or curiosity in the dead eyes, it had long fled the consuming darkness that lurks there.
Undeterred, the boys hands ball themselves into tight fists. A moment passes between them before the man glances up at the approaching maid. His eyes tell her everything she needs to know, and long before she reaches the table she has already turned back to the bar, shouting something above the raucous crowd. His stare returns to the table but no longer sees beyond it.
When the boy speaks, there is quiet. His voice shakes with something, fear, rage, perhaps even hope. It is a young voice, but it carries emotions far beyond it's ken.
"You were there, weren't you? You were the only one left at the end."
The man turns again to the lad, an inexpressible pain now taking refuge in his eyes.
"Leave me in peace, laddie. I've no want to hear o' t'ings past."
"But you were there!"
The words tare themselves from the boy, accusing, rebuking, demanding. Little can be caught of the conversation, the sea of other voices swallows the words, churning with the currents of sound only those who have tasted the sweet nectar of liquid courage can conjure.
"What happened to them all!? Why didn't they come back!? WHY DIDN'T ANY OF THEM COME BACK!?"
The bitter force behind the words falls cuts through the tides of noise. But the momentary lull and turning of a few heads curiously does not last long. The piano never falters, and soon shepherds each patron back into the bliss of drink and company.
The old sailor waves at the seat across from him.
"Sit boy. I've naught to say that'll change t'ings, but I 'spect you've a right, after all..."
The boy sniffs, wiping the sorrow from his eyes with the back of a hand, and glaring at the man. But he sits.
"Understand boy, my condition is af'er this, you leave me be. Seek no more answers here, I'll 'ave no more."
The boy wordlessly assents, face a mask of anticipation mixed with latent rage and blame.
The old man begins his tale...
The ship hands impossibly in the air. Not because of the harsh machinations of gravity, but rather that nature in general is a cruel mistress, and often sees fit to make her wrath felt in the form of dark clouds and brilliant bolts. One such avatar of rage loomed between the ironically named Iron Typhoon and her destination, some fifty miles south. The captain and his mate stood on the upper deck in silence. Presently Jiles, the first mate, lowered his looking glass.
"It looks to be a real mother of storms captain. Not sure she could take it."
The captain glared at the storm, brooding. His broad shoulders hunched as he came to his decision.
"We canna wait. She'll not get the best o' us. 'af ahead, Mr. Jiles."
The color drained from Jiles face, but he nodded his terrified assent and relayed the commands to the engine room.
The great engines of the Iron Typhoon churned into life, though their roar was dwarfed by sudden rolls of thunder bellowing out from the storm ahead.
The rain hit like a wall of needles, slicing and stabbing sideways against any exposed skin. The crew quailed at the force of the storm, but the bellows of the captain struck a greater fear into their hears and the ship pressed on. The Iron Typhoon cut through the wind and the rain, engines groaning under the strain of combat with the wind. They were in the heart of it now. The rain seemed not so bad here, content to crash down from above in great drops. Water began to cascade off the edges of the shallow pond which was once the deck. Very little could be seen through the sheets of descending water, save for the occasional pillar of light arcing through the black.
It was during one such flash that he saw it. Merely by chance, the smaller ship fighting against the wind, large main cannon turning slowly to face...
"PIRATES! ALL HANDS TO BATTLE-"
The last words were cut of in the roar of thunder. Brilliant fireflies spouted from the forward guns of the Goldfish above them, shrieking towards the hull of the ship and adding their voice to the thunder filling the air. Much of the starboard size of the ship was now hurtling through the storm. The wreckage of armor, guns, and crewmen fell silently.
The Goldfish fired a second salvo, tearing into the very heart of the ship. Glowing tendrils of life descended from the big ship: burning trails of diesel fuel falling into the black cloud. Fire was spreading across the deck. The captains fought to wrest his ship down through the storm. Getting to the ground before the fire spread to the balloon was the only thing occupying his mind. Yet this was also in the mind of his assailant.
A fracture report sounded from the little ship bobbing above him. With horror he realized the Goldfish had brought a broadside Carronade to bear. His eyes flicked to the balloon as hundreds of jagged rounds made their way through the tough material, leaving it useless. For a long moment the ship was still. Then the captain felt his stomach drop in that perilous moment of weightlessness.
Something sliver lanced through the air and into the deck, settling firmly in the wood. A rope now linked the Goldfish and the plummeting Iron Typhoon. The captain was lost in wonder: no one could be as insane or suicidal as the pilot of the other craft. They were descending nearly at the same rate! But there was nothing for it. He could only hope that the drag from the tattered balloon and sails would be enough to slow the ship. He threaded his arms into the rigging, giving over his fate to the ropes.
He came to in the wreck of his ship. The storm had let up somewhat, but a steady rain still pelted down from on high. He blinked. Several figures were moving about the wreck, carrying away cargo and powder. A few fires burned lazily here and there. He noted that some of the characters carried extinguishers.
"Oy!" a sharp excited voice called out near by. A woman with hair the color of bright gold, and a smooth, cruel yet regal face appeared around the wreckage. She held a pistol, and was pointing it directly at him, a smile playing with her mouth.
"We've got a live one! What are the odds!? Well boys, I think we can add a ransom to our haul!"
The cheers of the pirate crew served only to remind him of the screams of his own.
The boy stares. He was right. The story changed very little. His features tighten, brow knitting as he slides from his chair and squirms through the singing crowd. The old man watches him go, trying to remember which one he belongs to. The screams echo through his head again, and he hastily grabs the pungent mug the bar maid brings, draining half at once.
She returns, and he sits alone.
