Pavo de Lacey's Story

With a strong north-eastern wind and the prospect of another hefty pay at their next destination, the Divine Cutlass soared across the clouds – or lack thereof – with little else in their way safe for the odd bird and tourist ship. Just a week before, the crew had been handed valuable information in regards to a schematic that the TTG had their eyes on. What it was, the contact wouldn't say, but they had spoken towards the captain with a sense of urgency.

And he was never one to disregard an opportunity to make the lives of those totalitarian bastards a little harder... whatever the form.

The location of the schematic was a relatively large port town (compared to most, anyway) under the name of Willesden, dwarfed by the warehouse that loomed on the other side.

Before they were going to land, however, there were some matters to resolve.

With a confident stride and one hand resting on the sword dangling at his hip, captain Ace Kaiser approached the helm; his one good eye glancing over the top deck in the hopes that some of his crew had already made their way over.

Just the same, he took to the speaker tube and droned out an order with the familiar, monotonous tone he always used. “Alright you lot! We're approaching land, so prepare for docking and get topside!”

He turned. Facing his navigator. “Mister de Lacey, you may prep for landing. Take her in nice and easy.”

The Divine Cutlass slid through the air weightlessly, or so it seemed on such a clear day. Pavo loved this. The captain, the crew, the ship... all of it. He hadn't been aboard for very long, but was gradually learning to adore the life of a pirate. His eyes had been set straight ahead, focusing on the direction of the ship and the occasional gust of wind he could use to assist their progression.

“Mister de Lacey, you may prep for landing. Take her in nice and easy.” The Captain said from beside him. "Yes sir." He nodded, moving one hand to the crank on his left side. One of the benefits of a clear day was the visibility he had around the ship. A few cranks here, a pulled lever there, and the ship was gliding it's way downward. Pavo straightened his back and put his hands on his hips, beaming.

Perhaps he was a little too proud, too early, for the ship had yet to land safely still. He snapped out of his triumphant pose and focused once again on each movement the ship made. Of course he had begun the descent, but the crew would be the ones to soften the landing and dock them properly.

Walter heard the Captain's voice boom through the speaker in his room. He groaned and through his book onto the table, where it joined a disheveled group of other books, sketches, notes, and odd weapons. He hated whenever he was required to do anything on the ship, but the landing process was his least favorite. He got up from his plush chair, the only really nice amenity he had kept throughout his years of being a pirate. He strapped a large knife to his back, then put on his leather coat. There ain't never anything for me to do while we land anyhow. No reason for the boy to make me come topside till we see something I might have to shoot at. That's when he felt the ship start to descend and he hurried to get ready. He strapped his spark-stick to his belt, put on his shoulder holster, and grabbed one of the guns on his desk at random, shoving it into the holster as he moved towards the door. I better not have to talk to no one. he thought as he went.

Getting topside was hard for Walter, only harder for whatever poor soul was the mechanic for the flying scrap. His room let out directly to the underside railing, right next to the bolt guns, so he had ease of access to them. But this meant that he had to climb the ladder from the underside railing to get to the main part of the ship, and then walk up from there. This was not a process Walter enjoyed and something that he complained about near constantly. Before he went to the ladder, he worked to give Bart, what he called the port bolt gun. The bolt guns were long guns, that attached directly into the ship and had only a 180 degree field of fire, so that they couldn't fire on the ship itself. They fired long and near indestructible rods of metal, at around 100mph, with almost limitless range when gravity was on their side. While they weren't favored by most pirates because they often caused their prey to explode or fall, losing any hope of salvaging the remains, the Cutlass had Walter. Not only was he so accurate with them that he could take out a ruder from miles away, he had also jerry-rigged the gun to shoot a pylon chord attached to the rod. This way the Cutlass could not only ensnare opposing ships in her clutches, but could also guarantee that no ship fell to its demise after it was ravaged. It also meant that Walter was practically indispensable. No one else knew how to properly reload or fix the bolt guns, and Walter was sure to make anyone aware of this fact.

Having made sure that Bart, Bert, Betty, and Thaddeus were secure and ready for action, Walter climbed up the ladder to come into the main ship. The door let him into the mess, but he moved swiftly through there. He had no interest talking to Frederica one on one. Out the other end he climbed another set of stairs walked down a long corridor and climbed the final set to come out on the top of the ship. The glass kept the wind away from them, but Walter could still hear it whistling by. It had been quite a while since the Captain had made his call and Walter assumed they were almost to the ground at this point. He saw the young brat, who he had started to privately call Master Silver Spoon, at the helm, but didn't bother to look around anymore. He just wanted to slink to the back of the room and not have his name be said until we were on the ground.

Every table aligned, every chair in place. Just as it should be. The chestnut brown furniture of the mess hall had been polished to perfection, their mildly glossy surface bouncing back the white blue light of the sky. At the corner of the room, Frederica bent forward and dunked a dank, grey mop into a black bucket of water. The Divine Cutlass' cook hummed a whimsical tune as she shook the mop around, pulled it out, then used it to wipe the ceiling above.

Push and pull, to and fro. Frederica had been at this for quite a while, making sure every corner, nook, and cranny was spic and span. With lunch long passed by and dinner still hours away, Frederica decided to use her spare time to clean up the ship. Not only was she officially the ship's cook, she was also its custodian. Though she preferred the term 'maid'.

Just then, the captain's loud, firm voice traveled through the entire ship, alerting the crew of their docking. "Just in time," Frederica mused. She placed her mop into the bucket and kicked them into a nearby closet. The maid replaced her gloves and apron behind the mess hall bar, then brushed some of her bouncy hair behind her ears. One had to look presentable for a briefing, after all. She lifted up her skirt to check on leather holster full of kitchen knives on her upper thighs, strapped over a pair of pantyhose. Just for precautions, of course.

At the corner of her eye, Frederica took notice of Walter passing by. She quickly pulled her skirt back down, and walked out of the bar after him. "Hey. Old Walter!" she greeted him, pulling the ice pop from her mouth. Yes. Dear Old Walter. "Did you have a nice nap?" the corners of Frederica's mouth curved slightly in a cheeky grin. She always had too much pestering the grumpy fellow. The maid stuck close to him, following his every step to the top deck.

The captain gave Pavo a respectful nod. He was a good lad. Green as the meadow grass in Spring, but a good navigator. He knew that when the kid offered his services, but it was nice to see someone sticking to their boasts. Well, maybe that was giving him too much credit. For now, anyway.

Noting that the majority of the crew (sans a particular pair of mechanics) had made it to top deck, Ace didn't waste a single breath of air as he addressed his men from the helm.

“As you can see we're about to dock in Willesden, and before we all set off there were a couple of points that need mentioning.” He scraped his throat, slowly and carefully observing the faces of each individual. “Firstly, we're here for business. It came to my attention that the TTG might be cooking up a little scheme involving that factory.” He pointed at the large, metallic building billowing smoke from its many chimneys. “And I'll need some volunteers with me to come meet a contact.”

“Secondly, and I don't really have to point this out, be discreet. TTG eyes are everywhere, I'd rather not stick my neck out if you lot try to stir up some trouble of your own. Not saying you can't, but don't expect me to come pick you up from time-out.”

“Now, unless anyone has something to say, get to your jobs.” He'd stood there, unmoving and frozen like a statue. A cold stare eyeing the crew with scrutiny.