Post by Cid on Apr 26, 2010 21:32:23 GMT -5
for whatever we lose (like a you or a me) / it's always ourselves we find in the sea
~E. E. Cummings
---
A fierce piano ballad flowed over the loudspeakers of the grievously named battle cruiser, Addie's Ghost. It was a cruel sound, and the neophyte pirate crew found it difficult to drink their rum and pretend to maintain the decks. Along with their pirate regalia, each of the scurvy men wore protective earplugs which made them look like homeless rock concert patrons and did little to instill the fear they were so renown. Each and every morning since the acquisition of their new flagship, the captain had liberated the sound systems for his own mourning and, as some speculate, their punishment.
Although the life of a pirate is known for its hardships and perils, it's also marked by its merry-making and excesses. Since the death of Addie Joiner, the captain's close second (and, to some, his mistress), the men had known only heartache and sleep apnea. Silently, they cursed the Witch's name, yet in brief moments of reprieve they were overwhelmed by her memory. In front of the captain, anyway.
To the Wraith, nothing was more emancipating. To have lost it all--all ties to the tangible world--yet still have a reason for sailing on. It wasn't sentimentality, nor was it simple payback he sought after. Pirating was in his blood, straight and true. He didn't know how long ago the stereotype had become him, but he figured little else remained. Maybe he might've had a chance for something different with Addie--a lost soul like himself--but he'd never know. He was no longer Albert, lowly son of a clerk, nor Sam, aspiring pirate who failed at Lighthouse. Nay, he was the Wraith, pirate legend and scourge of the high seas from Earth to Joveside.
He stroked his salted beard, ran his fingers down over the many scars that lined his chest and arms. He touched the leg that gave him his signature hobble. He no longer felt the insecurity of youth, but only the hard-earned lines of adulthood. He was what he always had wanted
He was a product of his surroundings, and to use such a Neanderthalic proverb made the old seadog laugh 'til his sides hurt. He wiped his nose and continued to read despite the blaring piano chords. The book's title was Treasure Island, and the Wraith had read this one before.
He'd stop the music in an hour in time for third watch.
---
The zipline brought him to the bridge and the door slid open. The command center was as big as the Bone's storage bays, but he didn't let his astonishment slow him down. Though he missed the Bones, he knew she was in pretty good hands with Garcia. Fairly good hands--no, he knew that bilge faggot would sink her, but he tried not to let it bother him too much. Since his flag moved, the affairs of the ship's were no longer his concern.
"Mutes, get o'er here." He waved the young lad over, ignoring the faceless skeletons around him. Mutie was the only veteran transferred from the Bones, and the only soul he trusted to handle such a rig. The boy had never failed him and probably never would.
Mutie stood at attention like a scrappy Marine, his bones apparent under his faded green tank top. The Wraith tried not to let his affection for the boy shine through lest the rest of the buggered crew catch his soft side. Such a thing didn't exist, of course, but the Wraith was always wary of how he functioned in front of the lessers.
"Ah, Mutes ye's a fine a lad." He couldn't help himself. "I trust ye's acclimated to yer new accom'dations. What with all the trouble the boys went through to mount the Bone's steerin' column n' wheel on this piece o' Greeny shit. Does me harm seein' such a fine piece o' craft on such a bucket."
The invalid boy made wild gesticulations the captain took as a "yes," then began holding his head in his hands as if he were forlorn.
"Quit bellyachin', Mutie, ye'll see the ol' wreck again. But that's b'sides the point." He turned to the newcomers, all equally piratey as any he'd commanded before, yet many of them looked far too smooth for his liking. "To all men under the Wraith, batten the hatches and prime the guns 'cuz we're going out. Earthsides has yet had enough o' the Wraith and 'spect it's earned a great deal more."
Memories of Addie scrolled through his mind like neon marquees down some street he'd never traversed. She nearly confessed everything at the end--like a goddamn Catholic before the Pope--and like all good martyrs, she died for something apparently greater than herself.
But the Wraith felt the trade hadn't been an honest one. Though he gained an enormous war machine whose sole purpose was the rain down his will wherever he sailed her, he felt that paled in comparison the quirky, antsy girl he once called his Quartermaster.
Zeon might've delivered him this new craft, and they might've signed his letter of marque, and they might've lent him a hand here and there during his brief visit Earthside, but they were not his mother country. He also held them partly accountable for Addie, and though he took most of the blame himself, he couldn't let such a bountiful, unprotected target go unplundered.
After all, he was a pirate.
~E. E. Cummings
---
A fierce piano ballad flowed over the loudspeakers of the grievously named battle cruiser, Addie's Ghost. It was a cruel sound, and the neophyte pirate crew found it difficult to drink their rum and pretend to maintain the decks. Along with their pirate regalia, each of the scurvy men wore protective earplugs which made them look like homeless rock concert patrons and did little to instill the fear they were so renown. Each and every morning since the acquisition of their new flagship, the captain had liberated the sound systems for his own mourning and, as some speculate, their punishment.
Although the life of a pirate is known for its hardships and perils, it's also marked by its merry-making and excesses. Since the death of Addie Joiner, the captain's close second (and, to some, his mistress), the men had known only heartache and sleep apnea. Silently, they cursed the Witch's name, yet in brief moments of reprieve they were overwhelmed by her memory. In front of the captain, anyway.
To the Wraith, nothing was more emancipating. To have lost it all--all ties to the tangible world--yet still have a reason for sailing on. It wasn't sentimentality, nor was it simple payback he sought after. Pirating was in his blood, straight and true. He didn't know how long ago the stereotype had become him, but he figured little else remained. Maybe he might've had a chance for something different with Addie--a lost soul like himself--but he'd never know. He was no longer Albert, lowly son of a clerk, nor Sam, aspiring pirate who failed at Lighthouse. Nay, he was the Wraith, pirate legend and scourge of the high seas from Earth to Joveside.
He stroked his salted beard, ran his fingers down over the many scars that lined his chest and arms. He touched the leg that gave him his signature hobble. He no longer felt the insecurity of youth, but only the hard-earned lines of adulthood. He was what he always had wanted
He was a product of his surroundings, and to use such a Neanderthalic proverb made the old seadog laugh 'til his sides hurt. He wiped his nose and continued to read despite the blaring piano chords. The book's title was Treasure Island, and the Wraith had read this one before.
He'd stop the music in an hour in time for third watch.
---
The zipline brought him to the bridge and the door slid open. The command center was as big as the Bone's storage bays, but he didn't let his astonishment slow him down. Though he missed the Bones, he knew she was in pretty good hands with Garcia. Fairly good hands--no, he knew that bilge faggot would sink her, but he tried not to let it bother him too much. Since his flag moved, the affairs of the ship's were no longer his concern.
"Mutes, get o'er here." He waved the young lad over, ignoring the faceless skeletons around him. Mutie was the only veteran transferred from the Bones, and the only soul he trusted to handle such a rig. The boy had never failed him and probably never would.
Mutie stood at attention like a scrappy Marine, his bones apparent under his faded green tank top. The Wraith tried not to let his affection for the boy shine through lest the rest of the buggered crew catch his soft side. Such a thing didn't exist, of course, but the Wraith was always wary of how he functioned in front of the lessers.
"Ah, Mutes ye's a fine a lad." He couldn't help himself. "I trust ye's acclimated to yer new accom'dations. What with all the trouble the boys went through to mount the Bone's steerin' column n' wheel on this piece o' Greeny shit. Does me harm seein' such a fine piece o' craft on such a bucket."
The invalid boy made wild gesticulations the captain took as a "yes," then began holding his head in his hands as if he were forlorn.
"Quit bellyachin', Mutie, ye'll see the ol' wreck again. But that's b'sides the point." He turned to the newcomers, all equally piratey as any he'd commanded before, yet many of them looked far too smooth for his liking. "To all men under the Wraith, batten the hatches and prime the guns 'cuz we're going out. Earthsides has yet had enough o' the Wraith and 'spect it's earned a great deal more."
Memories of Addie scrolled through his mind like neon marquees down some street he'd never traversed. She nearly confessed everything at the end--like a goddamn Catholic before the Pope--and like all good martyrs, she died for something apparently greater than herself.
But the Wraith felt the trade hadn't been an honest one. Though he gained an enormous war machine whose sole purpose was the rain down his will wherever he sailed her, he felt that paled in comparison the quirky, antsy girl he once called his Quartermaster.
Zeon might've delivered him this new craft, and they might've signed his letter of marque, and they might've lent him a hand here and there during his brief visit Earthside, but they were not his mother country. He also held them partly accountable for Addie, and though he took most of the blame himself, he couldn't let such a bountiful, unprotected target go unplundered.
After all, he was a pirate.