I woke up this morning to Winston, my clockwork assistant Doctor Bathory made for me to help clean up around the flat. Creepy as all hell, marvel of modern technology though he may be. He’s been around for about 2 months now, so I suppose I’m used to it by now. Winston was a Christmas gift from the Doc, which made be feel pretty dumb, since my gift to him was a pocket watch that he proceeded to set aside amongst a pile of other gift watches.
“Good afternoon, Captain, may I get you some tea?”
“That won’t be necessary, Winston. Afternoon? What time is it?”
I grabbed my pocket watch from my side table and looked at the time. 2 PM. Damn it.
“Yes, sir, it appears you have missed the newest pilgrimage. The promising young men have all signed on to other airships.”
Pilgrimages. Every 6 months ships come in from every corner of the world full of prospective crewmen for New London’s Fleet. Now that I am captain of the S.A.S. Rapture, I am in need of a crew. Doc agreed to be the ships engineer, since he believes (as do I) that no one else could understand how to operate the airship’s propulsion system. Something about an elemental and fusion coils and I don’t know. Whatever. The point is, the Rapture cannot be run to her full potential by two men, and I need Winston here to keep my affairs in order while I’m out doing what I do best. But now, thanks to my incessant partying, I have slept in and completely missed the pilgrimage. Damn it.
Groggy, disappointed, and slightly hung over, I dragged myself down the spiral stair to my living room, where Winston was waiting for me with my clothes and personal effects. This can only mean that last night my clockwork assistant had removed my clothes. We will talk about this later. Right now, I have an appointment at my favorite pub.
“I assume you’ll be going to the usual establishment, Captain? I recommend you take your saber. Portside can be dangerous.”
Obviously, Winston has much to learn about me still.
The Bucket o’ Bolts is the grimiest rust hole of a dive in all of New London, located in the poor district called Portside. It’s a real dump, but that’s just why I love it. Sure, I’ll go to ritzier places like the Tudor Lounge or the Kashmir, but I belong in a pub, if nowhere else. After all, I was raised by wolves.
I walk in and sit down at the end of the bar, nodding at the other regulars who look like they’ve had days about as miserable as mine. Without a word, the bartender puts a drink in front of me. Just the way I like it. Smooth and dark, but with an after bite that’ll burn the hair out of your nostrils.
Just then, I smell something. Something’s different. Something’s wrong. I draw my saber and spin around, meeting the gaze of a very large fellow. He’s trying to pickpocket me. Sigh. Not after the day I’ve had.
“State your business and prepare to defend yourself.” I said, not breaking eye contact with the would-be thief.
Without saying anything, he stands upright. Wow. Much bigger than I had originally thought. He reaches behind him and comes back with two of the biggest damn machetes I’d ever seen. I block a blow from both at the same time that sends me sliding into the alley outside the pub. He doesn’t waste any time. By the time I regain my footing, he’s already on me, slashing and jabbing like a drunken madman. It’s everything I can do just to follow his movements. I hold my ground for a few moments, hoping he’ll lose energy after a bit.
He doesn’t.
Alright, enough. It’s time to end this. I charge right at him, running up the front of him, then dropping down with all my strength in a flying horse cut. My saber shatters through both machete blades and severs his right arm from the elbow down. The only sound after that is the wet thump of his limb on the rusted diamond plate.
I swipe the blood off my blade and hold a defensive stance near my opponent. “Do you yield?”
“Never!” he grunts, spitting on the ground at my feet and trying his hardest to hide the pain he’s in.
“I’ll ask you again, stranger, do you yield?!”
“You might as well kill me.”
“Sir, this is foolishness. Yield, so I can get you medical attention.”
“Why would you help me, a man who not moments ago was taking your money?”
“Because, my friend, you have fought valiantly and I am in need of men of your skill, and I can only assume you need the work. Now yield, and let me get you to Doctor Bathory. Yield! Now!”
“What of my arm?”
“Doctor Bathory is the finest outfitter of clockwork automail in the known world. I will purchase you a new arm, if you will join my crew.”
“Your generosity knows no bounds, Sky Captain. I yield.”
“Very well then.” I sheathed my saber, “Let’s go.”
As it turns out, my new shipmate’s name is Jericho Tavard, and he’s a wanted man. Not only that, but his fighting skills have only gotten fiercer with Doctor Bathory’s automail modifications. If the gods exist, it appears they are enthusiastic about my success.
Euhhhh
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