Cyberlad
Qia
Half Pint
Festive
mickilennial
AndyC
Sep
Roman
Rockette
Lord Wraith________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
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Wingtips clacked along the pier. His cheery visage swept down to admire his most recent big purchase.
The newly painted 'Thorpedo' punctuated by a green and gold surf lifesavers hat adorned a pristine hull, scrubbed clean and ready for a new launch. A new day. A new life.
He swept onto the deck, with a singular bounce off the gangplank.
Harold Holt. Captain of the Thorpedo. Hyperhuman power undisclosed.
He bounced past a figure with deep rouge skin, who was ironically turning a metaphorical shade of green already, before the launch had even begun. The Captain had attempted to optimistically assure him he'd find his level and the nausea would leave soon enough.
"Mornin' Jase. Still feelin' rough 'round the edges, mate? Get y'self to sickbay, when you get the chance. I made a run and stocked up on seasickness tablets, after the last chat. They scrubbed the muck right off of the deck too. Never-you-mind- mate. It's a boat, stuff mops right on out. Nobody thinks less of ya, and the Hell with any who would."
The red figure turned back and tried to respond, only for the bubbles to rise, and he quickly shut his mouth and clung tighter to the ladder he was attempting to steady himself on with complete futility.
Jason McGee. Regular passenger pending responsibilities. Proprioception (absolute knowledge of self-movement, force and location, generally leading to perfect balance on dry land... he is not on dry land). Also... red skin.
The Captain stepped on by and passed through a hatch to the interior, advancing further through his vessel.
"Celeste, what did the inventory wind up workin' out to?"
A woman in crisp, but non-uniform dress answered in the clipped dialogue of a chef reporting with other things on her mind.
"Per head. Eighteen days of three meals a day. Additional omnipresent 'snack' foods for turnover throughout. Ration from sixteen days and we should be able to stretch food three weeks, unless you have a hyperhuman here with particularly special nutritional needs or demands that you haven't told me about. I'd recommend re-stock between day fourteen and sixteen."
"Two weeks. Should be able to get 'er well clear of here by two weeks. That or I'll throw a rod over the side to bolster it, eh?"
Celeste didn't see the humour in this comment, and had already gone on to more pressing matters. Settling in to a welcome job of high responsibility.
Celeste Boucher. Head Chef (only chef...) of the Thorpedo. Hyperhuman power: Ulfactory and Gustatory Hypersensitivity.
The man in the dishevelled suit continued walking through his boat, cutting through the dining room, where a girl who looked somewhat out of the ordinary in as crisp a dress as she was currently wearing. She was slowly working her way around the room polishing and replacing crockery and cutlery where it would be deemed necessary by her regimental co-worker.
"All good, Lil'? Celeste not givin' ya too hard a time?"
The girl stopped and smiled at the older man. Raising a hand to wave. Around her wrist, a swirl of ink whirled and crawled onto her palm, showing a 'thumbs up' tattoo upon her bare palm to the Captain.
"Good to hear... but ya know ya could've just given an actual thumbs up, right? Now ya just showin' off."
The girl laughed soundlessly and both continued on their tasks.
Lilly Marks. 'Thorpedo' Wait staff. Mute. Hyperhuman power: Skin Art Projection.
The Captain stepped out of the hatch to the dining room back to the open air.
"V, how we lookin'? Good for a launch this arvo?"
From above, two women peered down at him with contrasting expressions to his presence.
He seemed somewhat taken aback by the exuberance of the first. Before the second gave a more verbose answer, yet with less weight of word.
"No less suitable than if you asked me at any other time... Clear skies are waiting whenever you're ready. And if you want cloud cover on our tail, I can manage that too."
"Bloody rippa. Uhh-- good... seein' you too. Suze."
He ducked his head back underneath in a hurry, and the more energetic woman hid her face in her hands.
"Smooth." The flat utterance of the more caustic of the pair.
Viola Figueroa. Sickbay Attendant - in lieu of nurse. Hyperhuman Power: Weather Manipulation.
Susan 'Suze' Scrivener. Early Shift Dishwasher. Hyperhuman Power: Spoken Word Manifestation.
He continued on through the boat, passing a table of four men playing cards and laughing.
"All good, lads? None-ya have anythin' ya need to be doin'?"
One of them spoke up, in a garbled Irish brogue, before slapping down a winning hand, to the groans of the others.
"Wouldn'e say that. But asked 'round, everythin' seemed taken care of. Need anytin' doe, feel free to ask. 'Specially Dougie. Probably be eager to stop losin' his dosh at this point."
Ste Aisling. Night Shift Dishwasher. Hyperhuman Power Undisclosed.
Dougie Simmons. Ship's Liaison / Radio Officer. Hyperhuman Power: Can understand any spoken language (even the thick accent of Ste Aisling...) even if he lacks the capacity to speak it himself.
Elijah Parks. Late Hours Crew. Hyperhuman Power Undisclosed.
Timothy Adams. Late Hours Crew. Hyperhuman Power: Levitation, not to be confused with 'flight'. JUST levitation. His skin is an instantly recognisable sky blue.
He left the quartet to their pre-launch redistribution of wealth, and pushed on again.
He opened the hatch to the helm and a man covered in cuticle filament made efforts to scramble to stand to attention, whilst a weathered woman remained head down over an assorted series of digital mapping screens.
"Nah, mate. It's not that kind of tub."
Earl Fisher. Secondary Helmsman (owns a fishing boat). Hyperhuman Power: Covered in cuticle filament - nails or scales.
"Charlie, how we lookin'? Got it figured?"
Charlie Millett. Navigator. Hyperhuman Power: Electromagnetoreception.
"So long as it's the Pacific, mapping's good to go. And unless this tub's a secret spaceship, there's not a place you can put it, that I'm not gonna know where we are."
"Oi... Steady on. I can call 'er a tub. Let's not go gettin' too comfortable."
Earl looked at the woman out of the corner of his eye, uncertain of what to make of things.
"What? Not gonna stand at attention now when the Captain's on the bridge?"
Earl's discomfort became even more palpable. The fisherman rested his hands on the helm, if only to do something with them.
"I'm takin' the piss." The Captain finally broke, with a broad cheeky grin.
"What..?" Earl uttered.
"He's joking." Charlie replied, not looking up from mapping. "Relax.
The hatch was already open and he was gone. Earl gave a sigh of relief. Charlie shook her head.
He walked back along the starboard deck to the stern, passing three figures looking out to sea.
"Ready and eager, eh? Rafe, Kath', Zara?"
A transparent figure turned back in surprise, before realising who had addressed them.
"Oh, yes, Captain. Present for duties, sir."
Rafe LeBlanc. Day Crew. Hyperhuman Power: Transparent flesh."
"Calm down, Rafe, I can see your heart's goin' a mile a minute. You're not going to... put on a shirt or anything?" The Australian asked.
"Ah, no sir. I know how it looks--" The polite young hyperhuman started before being interrupted.
"We can all see how EVERYTHIN' looks..."
"--But, even with the transparent flesh, I'm not susceptible to sunburn. And I'm, well, pretty comfortable with my body at this point." He explained.
"Well, ok. But if I see a burp or fart brewin' in there I'll give you a heads up, so you can keep on top of it..."
"That would be appreciated, sir."
The Captain shook his head and moved on from the earnest young man.
"How 'bout you two? Kath', Zara, all good? Any questions?"
"Yes, how can you tell the uhh-- what is it? Port from the starboard? Which side are we on?" One of the two women spoke up.
Kathleen Burns. Day Crew. Hyperhuman Power: Undisclosed.
"Okay, well, are we still moored?"
"Yes."
"And can you still see the wharf out there? The port?"
She turned back and looked at the clear water.
"It's that easy?"
"It is when we're moored on the port side."
"Wait, so... We don't have to moor on that side?"
"No. It's a modern cruise vessel. Can moor either side."
"Then why would you explain it like that..?"
"Cos..." He pointed out to the water. "Starboard side."
The other woman broke into the conversation, until now she had been deep in thought, looking out across the water. Some thought or another. A common occurrence. After finally putting down roots on this island, she still struggled the idea that now she would once again sea other places beyond its shores.
She had long made her peace with the notion that her days of adventure and world-wandering ways.
"In his defence, he never said that was the reason why. He merely gave unconnected information which may lead you to remembering that this side of the boat is starboard."
Zara Catrell. Day Crew. Hyperhuman Powers: Undisclosed.
"Yeah. That. See in old timey boats, before a central rudder system, they used to have a guy working the tiller with a massive stearboard which would jut out on the right side. When ships would moor, they'd do it on the other side so the stearboard doesn't get all banged up and congested. So it's sort of the reason, but not on this occasion."
Kathleen looked more confused than ever and just shook her head and walked away.
"Hey... I tried." He shrugged. Then turned to address the remaining woman. "Thanks, anyway."
"Don't mention it. I know a bit about unconnected information and seemingly unrelated barely tangential thinking."
"Yeah. Yeah, I guess you do."
Not only was her career gone, not that she hadn't been clinging by her fingernails for some time now, but the prospective island home that she'd worked for all of these years was behind her as well now.
Zara once again looked forward - well, starboard - to the seemingly boundless open ocean ahead. Always moving, even when it was time to stop.
"You have more to check on as well..."
"That I do." The Captain adding a simple nod, and opened a hatch and climbed down an interior ladder to the engine room.
The change in aesthetic was swift. Dark, dank and with no time for setting an inviting mood, he advanced to where he could hear murmuring and the sound of metal on metal ahead.
"How're we lookin', Vincenzo, ya little master? Redundancies all good?"
A face looked up from re-tightening screws after having cleaned a spare engine block.
"Harry, please. There was only one Master, the ultimate renaissance man of the Renaissance. You do him disservice."
"Well, I sure don't want to bloody do that. How are the engines lookin' though?"
Vincenzo Angellotti. First Mate. Hyperhuman Power: Instant Mastery of Any Tool, Vehicle, Weapon or Instrument.
"The engines in place, the redundancies and working in pristine condition. Bellisimo! These, the regular engines, just been cleaned, and are awaiting final visual testing, replacement and a test."
A young woman working on the other side of the engine block held out a hand. Five eyes suddenly formed on her fingertips, and were used to scan the harder to get to locations, underneath and behind, in the darker shade of the engine block.
"Visual check comes up fine, Vincenzo... oh, and Captain. We should be good to change them back now, if needed."
Natasha 'Tash' Stone. Part-time Engineering Officer and Assistant to Vincenzo. Hyperhuman Power: Variable Cell Matter
"First, we will lunch. Then the engines this afternoon. Molto rapido. Should be ready for castoff early evening, Captain Harry.
He scratched his chin and the facial hair that resided there.
"That is pretty quick. Good work, you two. Yeah. I'd say you both earned smoko. Get it intaya."
His heels clicked crisply back towards the ladder, where he climbed up and out of the hatch once more.
"Early evenin' castoff. That'll do."
Stepping out of the hatch he crossed to the portside and heard her before he saw her.
"Yoo-hooooooo! Captain?! I'm ready for our boarding party!"
Margot Saunders. Passenger with no Additional Duties. Hyperhuman Power: Physical Rejuvenation / Agelessness
He looked out to the pier and saw Margot Saunders standing on the wharf complete with extravagent dress, wide brimmed hat and full length gloves.
And more than a half a dozen suitcases.
"How the bloody Hell'd she get all of that here..." He muttered to himself in astonishment.
"Yep, we'll get you on board lickety-spli--"
Then what he saw, chilled him to his bones. A sight he never thought he would expect to see.
A mob. He'd heard of bigotry against hyperhumans, he'd encountered it in rare pockets and on the rare occasions he'd endeavoured a trip to the mainland by ferry, and when he'd first arrived here with the boy.
But the recent news had emboldened them. They'd been waiting for a chance to move on those that had been scapegoated and maligned for so many years. A pestilence now within grasp.
The Captain ran down the gangplank and attempted to usher Margot aboard the boat, but she wouldn't move on without her luggage.
He began to throw cases up and onto the deck from far beneath and grabbed the last two, before tloosing the rope at the stern, and with one arm mustering her onwards and up the board.
Having boarded Margot in a hurry, he quickly raised the gangplank, and with long strides ran towards the helm. Engines could be heard to re-start, but could take time.
People scurried to attention to quickly cast off, as per their Captain's orders.
He managed to get to the wheelhouse, moved Earl on and fired up the ship's thrusters and powered up the engines higher still. They'd not realised the reason for the sense of urgency in his voice.
With the manuevering thrusters in effect, the boat separated itself from the dock, as the mob came ever closer. He heard some kind of glass object shatter against the hull. He hollered out the starboard side, away from the mob.
Soon thick rolling fog descended all around the portside of the boat, mostly between the mob and the boat. Obscuring his view somewhat on that side, but he had no intention in going that way at all. Getting clear of other moored vessels, he opened up the engines in full and powered down the manueverability thrusters. More objects had cluttered against their hull, but fewer now. With the fog, they were now throwing blind. He began to feel safer, and his breathing and muscles less tense.
Then the shot rang out.
"Sweetbabyjesusonajetski!" The three in the wheelhouse ducked on instinct, even though they were in the safest place possible.
After a few seconds, pulling away, the Australian turned to Earl and commanded him to take the wheel and keep the current bearing; Away from the fog of the port and out to open waters.
He had to check the ship for damage.
First he went to the aft where he saw a shocked Kathleen still standing by the aft ropes.
"It-- it was a molotov cocktail." She was shell-shocked from the ordeal. "It didn't catch, but-- it was right by where I was pulling the lines up."
"It's alright, Kath'. Like you said. It didn't catch. Just gave 'er a helluva bloody christening, eh? All things bein' equal, probably would've just been better with the customary champagne bottle, eh?"
He stepped away before calling back.
"If you need, check in with Vee down in sickbay, once she's done with the cloud cover."
He didn't know what exactly that would accomplish, his ship lacked an established nurse and there was only one on board with any kind of medical training for emergency situations, and he had no intention of giving her that kind of responsibility on this boat. But if nothing else, it'd keep Kathleen from being alone, which was probably not a bad thing at this point.
He kept moving towards the stern. He saw it before he heard it.
He doubled his pace along the port-side deck. A scream came next.
By the time he got there, there was little to be done.
Quinn Spence. The Corpse on the Stern Deck. Formerly Service-time Kitchen Hand. Hyperhuman Power: Radiation Immunity.
He had no idea what to expect. But it wasn't this.
He dropped to his hands and knees to check for a pulse.
"No need. Too late for that. Through-and-through. Right temple to left cheek." A crisp, clear voice came.
The captain rocked back and ran a hand through his hair. He turned and looked to where the voice had come from.
"You're going to need to hold an investigation." She said. Almost resigned to the fate, events would undoutedly bestow upon here.
"Investigation? It was a mob of regular humans. Stormed the island. Came after the boat. Kath' said they threw a molotov cocktail at the bow."
Zara Catrell explained her reasoning. The former H.E.L.P investigator seemingly doomed to spend her retirement back on the job.
"The mob was about thirty metres clear. Thick cloud cover. The shot was a through-and-through from right temple down through left cheek. Elevated. The pier is not from an elevated position."
"A ricochet. A lucky shot. They weren't shooting at anyone in particular." He argued. "Just angry people lashing out hoping to hit anything."
Zara sighed.
"Which would be far less likely to hit anyone or Quinn in this case, than an intended shooter aboard the ship."
A small group of people by now had gathered around the body on the stern deck.
"I don't know. I think I'd feel far better if we at least had an investigation, so we could know we DIDN'T have a potential murderer anywhere onboard amongst us." Rafe said. His stomach bubbled and churned at the sight of the body.
"I mean... we're lucky enough that we HAVE an investigator here in the first place. It kind of doesn't make sense to not have her look into it, Harry. If only just to clear everyone."
But the Captain wasn't so sure.
"The last thing we need, though, is a bunch of baseless bloody accusations going on. And everyone turnin' against each other, though. That seems like a recipe for disaster... and we've been simmerin' up a big bowl of disaster for quite some time now on the mainland, let alone bringin' it out in my boat."
Zara nodded. Taking on his concerns. "Maintain discretion. Priority. Fair. I could conduct interviews in my own quarters. Is there anywhere clean where the body could be inspected?"
"Aww, Hells bloody bells, you're not lookin' to carve up a cadaver in my bleedin' sickbay, are ya?"
Zara gave a solitary grim chuckle.
"No, no. Nothing like that. I'm not trained in how to perform an autopsy. And we're unlikely to get ashore in any kind of meaningful time, where one could be performed by anybody who is. So probably, little more than bullet retrieval..."
"Bullet retrieval? What could you learn from that?"
"Easy way to find out." Came the flat reply.
"That is, of course, if you're not still afraid of allowing an investigation?"
Interaction(s): NPCs - Hyperhuman Residents of the Alumni Village
Previously: Not Applicable
Wingtips clacked along the pier. His cheery visage swept down to admire his most recent big purchase.
The newly painted 'Thorpedo' punctuated by a green and gold surf lifesavers hat adorned a pristine hull, scrubbed clean and ready for a new launch. A new day. A new life.
He swept onto the deck, with a singular bounce off the gangplank.
Harold Holt. Captain of the Thorpedo. Hyperhuman power undisclosed.
He bounced past a figure with deep rouge skin, who was ironically turning a metaphorical shade of green already, before the launch had even begun. The Captain had attempted to optimistically assure him he'd find his level and the nausea would leave soon enough.
"Mornin' Jase. Still feelin' rough 'round the edges, mate? Get y'self to sickbay, when you get the chance. I made a run and stocked up on seasickness tablets, after the last chat. They scrubbed the muck right off of the deck too. Never-you-mind- mate. It's a boat, stuff mops right on out. Nobody thinks less of ya, and the Hell with any who would."
The red figure turned back and tried to respond, only for the bubbles to rise, and he quickly shut his mouth and clung tighter to the ladder he was attempting to steady himself on with complete futility.
Jason McGee. Regular passenger pending responsibilities. Proprioception (absolute knowledge of self-movement, force and location, generally leading to perfect balance on dry land... he is not on dry land). Also... red skin.
The Captain stepped on by and passed through a hatch to the interior, advancing further through his vessel.
"Celeste, what did the inventory wind up workin' out to?"
A woman in crisp, but non-uniform dress answered in the clipped dialogue of a chef reporting with other things on her mind.
"Per head. Eighteen days of three meals a day. Additional omnipresent 'snack' foods for turnover throughout. Ration from sixteen days and we should be able to stretch food three weeks, unless you have a hyperhuman here with particularly special nutritional needs or demands that you haven't told me about. I'd recommend re-stock between day fourteen and sixteen."
"Two weeks. Should be able to get 'er well clear of here by two weeks. That or I'll throw a rod over the side to bolster it, eh?"
Celeste didn't see the humour in this comment, and had already gone on to more pressing matters. Settling in to a welcome job of high responsibility.
Celeste Boucher. Head Chef (only chef...) of the Thorpedo. Hyperhuman power: Ulfactory and Gustatory Hypersensitivity.
The man in the dishevelled suit continued walking through his boat, cutting through the dining room, where a girl who looked somewhat out of the ordinary in as crisp a dress as she was currently wearing. She was slowly working her way around the room polishing and replacing crockery and cutlery where it would be deemed necessary by her regimental co-worker.
"All good, Lil'? Celeste not givin' ya too hard a time?"
The girl stopped and smiled at the older man. Raising a hand to wave. Around her wrist, a swirl of ink whirled and crawled onto her palm, showing a 'thumbs up' tattoo upon her bare palm to the Captain.
"Good to hear... but ya know ya could've just given an actual thumbs up, right? Now ya just showin' off."
The girl laughed soundlessly and both continued on their tasks.
Lilly Marks. 'Thorpedo' Wait staff. Mute. Hyperhuman power: Skin Art Projection.
The Captain stepped out of the hatch to the dining room back to the open air.
"V, how we lookin'? Good for a launch this arvo?"
From above, two women peered down at him with contrasting expressions to his presence.
He seemed somewhat taken aback by the exuberance of the first. Before the second gave a more verbose answer, yet with less weight of word.
"No less suitable than if you asked me at any other time... Clear skies are waiting whenever you're ready. And if you want cloud cover on our tail, I can manage that too."
"Bloody rippa. Uhh-- good... seein' you too. Suze."
He ducked his head back underneath in a hurry, and the more energetic woman hid her face in her hands.
"Smooth." The flat utterance of the more caustic of the pair.
Viola Figueroa. Sickbay Attendant - in lieu of nurse. Hyperhuman Power: Weather Manipulation.
Susan 'Suze' Scrivener. Early Shift Dishwasher. Hyperhuman Power: Spoken Word Manifestation.
He continued on through the boat, passing a table of four men playing cards and laughing.
"All good, lads? None-ya have anythin' ya need to be doin'?"
One of them spoke up, in a garbled Irish brogue, before slapping down a winning hand, to the groans of the others.
"Wouldn'e say that. But asked 'round, everythin' seemed taken care of. Need anytin' doe, feel free to ask. 'Specially Dougie. Probably be eager to stop losin' his dosh at this point."
Ste Aisling. Night Shift Dishwasher. Hyperhuman Power Undisclosed.
Dougie Simmons. Ship's Liaison / Radio Officer. Hyperhuman Power: Can understand any spoken language (even the thick accent of Ste Aisling...) even if he lacks the capacity to speak it himself.
Elijah Parks. Late Hours Crew. Hyperhuman Power Undisclosed.
Timothy Adams. Late Hours Crew. Hyperhuman Power: Levitation, not to be confused with 'flight'. JUST levitation. His skin is an instantly recognisable sky blue.
He left the quartet to their pre-launch redistribution of wealth, and pushed on again.
He opened the hatch to the helm and a man covered in cuticle filament made efforts to scramble to stand to attention, whilst a weathered woman remained head down over an assorted series of digital mapping screens.
"Nah, mate. It's not that kind of tub."
Earl Fisher. Secondary Helmsman (owns a fishing boat). Hyperhuman Power: Covered in cuticle filament - nails or scales.
"Charlie, how we lookin'? Got it figured?"
Charlie Millett. Navigator. Hyperhuman Power: Electromagnetoreception.
"So long as it's the Pacific, mapping's good to go. And unless this tub's a secret spaceship, there's not a place you can put it, that I'm not gonna know where we are."
"Oi... Steady on. I can call 'er a tub. Let's not go gettin' too comfortable."
Earl looked at the woman out of the corner of his eye, uncertain of what to make of things.
"What? Not gonna stand at attention now when the Captain's on the bridge?"
Earl's discomfort became even more palpable. The fisherman rested his hands on the helm, if only to do something with them.
"I'm takin' the piss." The Captain finally broke, with a broad cheeky grin.
"What..?" Earl uttered.
"He's joking." Charlie replied, not looking up from mapping. "Relax.
The hatch was already open and he was gone. Earl gave a sigh of relief. Charlie shook her head.
He walked back along the starboard deck to the stern, passing three figures looking out to sea.
"Ready and eager, eh? Rafe, Kath', Zara?"
A transparent figure turned back in surprise, before realising who had addressed them.
"Oh, yes, Captain. Present for duties, sir."
Rafe LeBlanc. Day Crew. Hyperhuman Power: Transparent flesh."
"Calm down, Rafe, I can see your heart's goin' a mile a minute. You're not going to... put on a shirt or anything?" The Australian asked.
"Ah, no sir. I know how it looks--" The polite young hyperhuman started before being interrupted.
"We can all see how EVERYTHIN' looks..."
"--But, even with the transparent flesh, I'm not susceptible to sunburn. And I'm, well, pretty comfortable with my body at this point." He explained.
"Well, ok. But if I see a burp or fart brewin' in there I'll give you a heads up, so you can keep on top of it..."
"That would be appreciated, sir."
The Captain shook his head and moved on from the earnest young man.
"How 'bout you two? Kath', Zara, all good? Any questions?"
"Yes, how can you tell the uhh-- what is it? Port from the starboard? Which side are we on?" One of the two women spoke up.
Kathleen Burns. Day Crew. Hyperhuman Power: Undisclosed.
"Okay, well, are we still moored?"
"Yes."
"And can you still see the wharf out there? The port?"
She turned back and looked at the clear water.
"It's that easy?"
"It is when we're moored on the port side."
"Wait, so... We don't have to moor on that side?"
"No. It's a modern cruise vessel. Can moor either side."
"Then why would you explain it like that..?"
"Cos..." He pointed out to the water. "Starboard side."
The other woman broke into the conversation, until now she had been deep in thought, looking out across the water. Some thought or another. A common occurrence. After finally putting down roots on this island, she still struggled the idea that now she would once again sea other places beyond its shores.
She had long made her peace with the notion that her days of adventure and world-wandering ways.
"In his defence, he never said that was the reason why. He merely gave unconnected information which may lead you to remembering that this side of the boat is starboard."
Zara Catrell. Day Crew. Hyperhuman Powers: Undisclosed.
"Yeah. That. See in old timey boats, before a central rudder system, they used to have a guy working the tiller with a massive stearboard which would jut out on the right side. When ships would moor, they'd do it on the other side so the stearboard doesn't get all banged up and congested. So it's sort of the reason, but not on this occasion."
Kathleen looked more confused than ever and just shook her head and walked away.
"Hey... I tried." He shrugged. Then turned to address the remaining woman. "Thanks, anyway."
"Don't mention it. I know a bit about unconnected information and seemingly unrelated barely tangential thinking."
"Yeah. Yeah, I guess you do."
Not only was her career gone, not that she hadn't been clinging by her fingernails for some time now, but the prospective island home that she'd worked for all of these years was behind her as well now.
Zara once again looked forward - well, starboard - to the seemingly boundless open ocean ahead. Always moving, even when it was time to stop.
"You have more to check on as well..."
"That I do." The Captain adding a simple nod, and opened a hatch and climbed down an interior ladder to the engine room.
The change in aesthetic was swift. Dark, dank and with no time for setting an inviting mood, he advanced to where he could hear murmuring and the sound of metal on metal ahead.
"How're we lookin', Vincenzo, ya little master? Redundancies all good?"
A face looked up from re-tightening screws after having cleaned a spare engine block.
"Harry, please. There was only one Master, the ultimate renaissance man of the Renaissance. You do him disservice."
"Well, I sure don't want to bloody do that. How are the engines lookin' though?"
Vincenzo Angellotti. First Mate. Hyperhuman Power: Instant Mastery of Any Tool, Vehicle, Weapon or Instrument.
"The engines in place, the redundancies and working in pristine condition. Bellisimo! These, the regular engines, just been cleaned, and are awaiting final visual testing, replacement and a test."
A young woman working on the other side of the engine block held out a hand. Five eyes suddenly formed on her fingertips, and were used to scan the harder to get to locations, underneath and behind, in the darker shade of the engine block.
"Visual check comes up fine, Vincenzo... oh, and Captain. We should be good to change them back now, if needed."
Natasha 'Tash' Stone. Part-time Engineering Officer and Assistant to Vincenzo. Hyperhuman Power: Variable Cell Matter
"First, we will lunch. Then the engines this afternoon. Molto rapido. Should be ready for castoff early evening, Captain Harry.
He scratched his chin and the facial hair that resided there.
"That is pretty quick. Good work, you two. Yeah. I'd say you both earned smoko. Get it intaya."
His heels clicked crisply back towards the ladder, where he climbed up and out of the hatch once more.
"Early evenin' castoff. That'll do."
Stepping out of the hatch he crossed to the portside and heard her before he saw her.
"Yoo-hooooooo! Captain?! I'm ready for our boarding party!"
Margot Saunders. Passenger with no Additional Duties. Hyperhuman Power: Physical Rejuvenation / Agelessness
He looked out to the pier and saw Margot Saunders standing on the wharf complete with extravagent dress, wide brimmed hat and full length gloves.
And more than a half a dozen suitcases.
"How the bloody Hell'd she get all of that here..." He muttered to himself in astonishment.
"Yep, we'll get you on board lickety-spli--"
Then what he saw, chilled him to his bones. A sight he never thought he would expect to see.
A mob. He'd heard of bigotry against hyperhumans, he'd encountered it in rare pockets and on the rare occasions he'd endeavoured a trip to the mainland by ferry, and when he'd first arrived here with the boy.
But the recent news had emboldened them. They'd been waiting for a chance to move on those that had been scapegoated and maligned for so many years. A pestilence now within grasp.
The Captain ran down the gangplank and attempted to usher Margot aboard the boat, but she wouldn't move on without her luggage.
He began to throw cases up and onto the deck from far beneath and grabbed the last two, before tloosing the rope at the stern, and with one arm mustering her onwards and up the board.
"CAST OFF! EARL! BLOODY CAST OFF! VEEEEEEEEE! COVER! NOW!"
Having boarded Margot in a hurry, he quickly raised the gangplank, and with long strides ran towards the helm. Engines could be heard to re-start, but could take time.
"CAST OFF THE FORE ROPES! WE'RE GOING! NOW!"
People scurried to attention to quickly cast off, as per their Captain's orders.
He managed to get to the wheelhouse, moved Earl on and fired up the ship's thrusters and powered up the engines higher still. They'd not realised the reason for the sense of urgency in his voice.
With the manuevering thrusters in effect, the boat separated itself from the dock, as the mob came ever closer. He heard some kind of glass object shatter against the hull. He hollered out the starboard side, away from the mob.
"VEEEEEE! THAT CLOUD COVER! ANY BLOODY TIME NOW!"
Soon thick rolling fog descended all around the portside of the boat, mostly between the mob and the boat. Obscuring his view somewhat on that side, but he had no intention in going that way at all. Getting clear of other moored vessels, he opened up the engines in full and powered down the manueverability thrusters. More objects had cluttered against their hull, but fewer now. With the fog, they were now throwing blind. He began to feel safer, and his breathing and muscles less tense.
Then the shot rang out.
"Sweetbabyjesusonajetski!" The three in the wheelhouse ducked on instinct, even though they were in the safest place possible.
After a few seconds, pulling away, the Australian turned to Earl and commanded him to take the wheel and keep the current bearing; Away from the fog of the port and out to open waters.
He had to check the ship for damage.
First he went to the aft where he saw a shocked Kathleen still standing by the aft ropes.
"It-- it was a molotov cocktail." She was shell-shocked from the ordeal. "It didn't catch, but-- it was right by where I was pulling the lines up."
"It's alright, Kath'. Like you said. It didn't catch. Just gave 'er a helluva bloody christening, eh? All things bein' equal, probably would've just been better with the customary champagne bottle, eh?"
He stepped away before calling back.
"If you need, check in with Vee down in sickbay, once she's done with the cloud cover."
He didn't know what exactly that would accomplish, his ship lacked an established nurse and there was only one on board with any kind of medical training for emergency situations, and he had no intention of giving her that kind of responsibility on this boat. But if nothing else, it'd keep Kathleen from being alone, which was probably not a bad thing at this point.
He kept moving towards the stern. He saw it before he heard it.
He doubled his pace along the port-side deck. A scream came next.
By the time he got there, there was little to be done.
Quinn Spence. The Corpse on the Stern Deck. Formerly Service-time Kitchen Hand. Hyperhuman Power: Radiation Immunity.
He had no idea what to expect. But it wasn't this.
He dropped to his hands and knees to check for a pulse.
"No need. Too late for that. Through-and-through. Right temple to left cheek." A crisp, clear voice came.
The captain rocked back and ran a hand through his hair. He turned and looked to where the voice had come from.
"You're going to need to hold an investigation." She said. Almost resigned to the fate, events would undoutedly bestow upon here.
"Investigation? It was a mob of regular humans. Stormed the island. Came after the boat. Kath' said they threw a molotov cocktail at the bow."
Zara Catrell explained her reasoning. The former H.E.L.P investigator seemingly doomed to spend her retirement back on the job.
"The mob was about thirty metres clear. Thick cloud cover. The shot was a through-and-through from right temple down through left cheek. Elevated. The pier is not from an elevated position."
"A ricochet. A lucky shot. They weren't shooting at anyone in particular." He argued. "Just angry people lashing out hoping to hit anything."
Zara sighed.
"Which would be far less likely to hit anyone or Quinn in this case, than an intended shooter aboard the ship."
A small group of people by now had gathered around the body on the stern deck.
"I don't know. I think I'd feel far better if we at least had an investigation, so we could know we DIDN'T have a potential murderer anywhere onboard amongst us." Rafe said. His stomach bubbled and churned at the sight of the body.
"I mean... we're lucky enough that we HAVE an investigator here in the first place. It kind of doesn't make sense to not have her look into it, Harry. If only just to clear everyone."
But the Captain wasn't so sure.
"The last thing we need, though, is a bunch of baseless bloody accusations going on. And everyone turnin' against each other, though. That seems like a recipe for disaster... and we've been simmerin' up a big bowl of disaster for quite some time now on the mainland, let alone bringin' it out in my boat."
Zara nodded. Taking on his concerns. "Maintain discretion. Priority. Fair. I could conduct interviews in my own quarters. Is there anywhere clean where the body could be inspected?"
"Aww, Hells bloody bells, you're not lookin' to carve up a cadaver in my bleedin' sickbay, are ya?"
Zara gave a solitary grim chuckle.
"No, no. Nothing like that. I'm not trained in how to perform an autopsy. And we're unlikely to get ashore in any kind of meaningful time, where one could be performed by anybody who is. So probably, little more than bullet retrieval..."
"Bullet retrieval? What could you learn from that?"
"Easy way to find out." Came the flat reply.
"That is, of course, if you're not still afraid of allowing an investigation?"
