Ocean Eyes, Storm Cloud Minds

Ending up on a pirate ship at five in the morning doesn't tend to be a popular occurrence. The foggy morning haze swarmed the deck, enveloping it almost entirely and blocking near all of the extravagant (and overly expensive) ships from view. Still groggy from waking up at four in the morning, Lancelot trudged toward the ports with great reluctance. His shifts had been extended, and he regretted his decision to accept that as a fact, whether or not it came with a proportional pay rise. He'd claimed, both to himself and other, that he needed the money. Waking at four and going to sleep at approximately eleven, midnight if he had any issues during the day, wasn’t worth the extra cash. Compared to his last routine, this was an absurd stretch. How much more did he think that he could take? Yet, whenever he doubted himself, he’d insist that he just needed another week and he’d be used to the routine again. Much to his dismay, as the days went on, this lie got harder and harder to tell. His cravings for a nap- for any form of unconsciousness that could stop this sluggishness- were interfering with work. The only reason he had yet to pass out for longer than an hour was because of his wake-up calls. It happened one of two ways- he was smacked into consciousness (commonly with a newspaper, or just the back of a hand) or he got a handful of cold, salty water to the face. He believed he had a day off coming up soon- he’d sleep it all away, and promptly complain about these ridiculously long hours afterwards- when he could think again. A ship was docking, he noted. Port two, the other end of the docks, would be occupied in an hour, so he would get there and get a few winks before they docked and woke him. That’d be an ideal way to spend the first hour of his ship. He walked past the office and picked up the pen, scrawling his name down messily to sign in. He dragged his feet along the floor, hauling his own heavy weight with almost embarrassing eagerness for his potentially upcoming nap. One hand slid through his soft hair, and he was suddenly thankful that he’d managed to wash himself the previous evening- though sleepiness was quick to try to take control of him. He reached the end of the docks sooner than he’d expected, assuming he’d blanked out temporarily, and made sure he was on the second dock from the end. He strode up to a chair by a small wooden post. It looked beat up and old, but he paid it no mind, and instead found himself frowning as his gaze turned to the wooden platform. A few steps further forward and the fog cleared a little more. Was he an hour late? The silhouette of a ship was standing strong against the purple mist. A few steps closer and he realised that this wasn’t a ship he was familiar with. Had they branched out but kept him from knowing? It’d not be the first time there was a business expansion that he wasn’t privy to. Those without authority would be stupid to dock at a monitored port, especially with someone on duty. Forcing himself to subdue his paranoia, Lancelot made his way toward the boarding plank. It didn’t seem to be a seafaring vessel- the sharp black paint was clean and had yet to be washed-out by the rough seas or barnacles, and the sepia details had been painted with precision, giving it a clean and prestigious appearance. The paling was carved out of darkened, varnished cherrywood that were recent additions to the ship. Markings on the walls that this paling was fixed to make it clear that there had previously been a different rail to the ship, rust showing that it had been added with large metal fixtures. This railing had been attached using a different form of joint- this time wooden- meaning that there was no hint of the ugliness. This ship wasn’t new but it had recently been done up. Perhaps to be presentable, after joining the new company. Possibly because a recent increase in money had brought an urge to waste money, so the ship had been renovated. Perhaps there had been... pirate trouble. Damage to the ship had caused them to need to repair it, so they'd renovated it instead. Lancelot’s eyes were drawn to the finishing. The structure was made with precision, a perfectly crescent-shaped arch. This was all black, following the form of the ship. He was boarding the ship before he was even aware of it. Stood on the ship, he slid his hand along the varnished bannister, admiring the craftsmanship and the detail in it, before turning his attention to the floor. It had a few scuffs but was mostly clean. This, again, was a recent instalment to the ship. He glanced up, his gaze following the mast, but the crows nest was lost to the fog, as well as the flag above it. Lancelot was unable to admire any more of the ship without drawing attention to himself for being onboard. That was when he realised exactly what he was doing. Not only was he aboard a ship without introducing himself, but he was also unsure whether or not the ship was supposed to be here. A wave of paranoia followed the realisation and he silently cursed himself for his stupidity. Shrouded in fog, he couldn’t even see the end of the dock, where he had been stood around five minutes ago. He envied this ship. He, with his dirty beige shirt and his brown waistcoat, his black pants that were scratched and faded, had been saving his money for years for a vessel such as this one. How many more years would it take for him to earn the money for a ship as extravagant as this? He’d be working until he died. Piracy, no matter how much he hated it, was a lifestyle he understood. Money was especially hard to come by in Cuba, even if you worked at the trading docks in a seaside town. He’d have turned to a life of crime long ago if it meant he could have a ship like this. Instead, he assumed that this belonged to someone wealthy- a general or an admiral had funded the purchase of this ship for trading. He’d not even start on his envying their positions. Wealth without excessive work was a luxury he’d never live to know of. He knew it was just his paranoia swirling in his brain- it worsened when he lacked sleep, but he couldn’t help the wave of anxiety that filled his mind. Even the talk of pirates having a ship like this worried him. Did pirates own this ship, or was he a paranoid i***t? Both, he figured, were as likely as the other. He paced around with anxiousness clear in his demeanour, now cursing the fog. The ocean looked beautifully mysterious with it, but it wasn’t something that he could linger to admire. He wanted to find out what the flag was, and what it had on it, but he couldn’t see it from here. This, irritatingly, induced further paranoia. The lacking presence of crew members concerned him. It was protocol to have someone present on deck at all times so that there would be someone to speak to if he needed to be in contact with someone. Where were they? Swallowing his nerves and forcing the sickly feeling in his stomach back so that he could talk, Lancelot decided to be vocal. “H-Hola?” he called out loudly, though his voice was shakier than intended and showed no authority, as usual. His nerves would be the death of him one day. “My, my,” remarked a loud voice, full of piercing authority and coldness- though there were hints of amusements and entertainment. “Who do we ‘ave 'ere?” Lancelot couldn’t help his body tensing, and he glanced around. The source of the voice was shrouded in fog, but a few steps forward made a silhouette appear. This man had a wide-set stance, his hands on his hips and his feet placed shoulder-width apart. He seemed to radiate pride, and Lancelot couldn’t even see him clearly. He wrapped his arms a little tighter around himself, his frown making his freckled nose scrunch up slightly. His blue eyes scanned the area for anyone else. It didn’t feel right for this place to be so empty. “¡M-Me llamo Lancelot!” He tried to clear his mind a little, focusing on English, as that was what he was being spoken to in. His mind was so hazy with paranoia he could barely even think about speaking in Spanish, his first language. “My name is Lancelot! I work at these docks- I demand to see your papers!” He folded his arms over his chest, trying to come across as a little confident, despite how he clearly wasn’t. "Aye, 's that so?" The voice came again, now accompanied by a cold edge to it, thus causing a shudder to slide down Lancelot's spine like ice. The cold spread along his nerves and he wrapped his arms around himself awkwardly, for warmth while the shudder passed, prior to straightening up and focusing on looking a little less timid. "Ivy!" The voice, though previously calm and collected, almost taunting with its composure, was now brash and raised; edged with a coldness that commands held. This non-verbal command, one that had no need to be explicitly mentioned or ordered in a more explanatory way, was some form of threat. Lancelot felt an overwhelming urge to leave and escape the pier. He felt the need to go to the authorities and alert them of the ship- to share the details he'd admired meticulously so that this ship could be investigated, if not put on watch, but it was only a few seconds of this until he realised his own fear had paralysed him. He knew he wasn't especially brave, and he was aware that he's lived a pacifist life up until recent events, but he never recalled being so afraid that it took merely one word, one that wasn't even explicitly a command, to drive him to such a fear-ridden state. By the time he could move, adrenaline was pumping through his veins and he could hear his pulse ringing in his ears. His mind was only telling him to run and he complied- though he only got as far as turning before a face blocked his vision. He almost jolted back- he would have, provided that his mind had registered this- and instead ended up continuing clumsily forward. He was struck over the head with, as far as he could tell, the hilt of a blade or the heel of a gun was slammed into his head. The impact to his temple caused his body to jolt, seize up, and then he collapsed, nearing unconsciousness. Running had been a choice for perhaps the first few seconds after the command was issued, but any later than that and he should have known that he was doomed. For the last few moments that his eyes were open enough for him to be aware of the world around him, he noticed that the fog had cleared up. He sent a glance to the dock with his hazy eyes, now able to see the large sign that told the public to keep away. Due to his tiredness, Lancelot had gone onto the wrong deck. He, in a moment of blind stupidity, had stumbled upon an unstable section of the pier, where the public wasn't permitted because it wasn't safe, and where an unknown ship was currently docked. His head was turned upwards and the face, now blurry as his eyes went out of focus, checked his state. As the weapon was raised for a second stripe, he got a view of the crows nest and saw the flickering of a flag above it. An ebony splodge in his vision made it clear that he should never have approached this ship. He should never have taken this shift. A cry was driven past his lips as the object was brought down and he finally lost his consciousness. Blood pooled into drops and began to dribble down from his forehead as the aftermath of the impact. Lancelot had made an idiots mistake, and now he was stuck aboard a pirate ship.