Ship In A Bottle || South Park Pirate AU

Six

In which Nobody's tale is told

Kyle awoke to a sensation not unlike someone trying to split his head open from the inside. For a moment he remained motionless, overcome by the pain of his aching body, convinced that he was dead. Then he noticed that he could hear himself breathing and realised that he was thankfully still alive. Bit by bit, he peeled his eyelids open, which felt as if they had been pasted together. The wooden ceiling above him blurred in and out of focus. He tilted his head, and found that his small cabin was empty, which was unusual, given that he was normally woken by their stirring. Then again, alcohol did have a habit of deepening his sleep.

Kyle got to his feet, and then immediately pitched forward, arms flailing until he caught hold of an overhead hammock to steady himself. His head and his heart were pounding in a quick, offbeat rhythm, deafening, throwing him off balance. Dressing was a slow and cumbersome process, peppered with more incidents of almost-but-not-quite falling over. By the time he finished fumbling with the last of his shirt buttons, he was glad to have the cabin to himself. Putting that sort of show on display would not do wonders for his reputation.

Kyle dragged his leaden body upstairs, where the sun was so bright that it felt like he was under attack. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, feeling for a moment like he was stranded in a desert. His throat was certainly dry enough to fit the occasion.

When he had regained his ability to see, he was reminded of the fact that he was not in a desert, but up on a busy and bustling deck. Stacks on stacks of crates were littered about, being rifled through, and carted off to shore. Those that left the ship were overseen by the watchful gaze of Token, the quartermaster. Kyle watched as Stan walked towards him, and they exchanged a few words. Then Stan saw Kyle slumped against the doorframe and waved him over.

"Morning, bedhead." He looked impossibly well rested for someone who had drank at least twice as much as Kyle had.

"You." Kyle gave Stan the dirtiest look he could scrape together. "You poisoned me. With your—your devil juice!"

"Hangover treating you well, I take it."

"It feels like I'm dying," groaned Kyle. "I wish it would hurry up and kill me already, so I don't have to suffer through this headache any longer."

"You are so melodramatic," said Stan. "Here." He held out a leather flask.

Kyle looked at it suspiciously. "I'm not about to take your hair of the dog remedy."

"It's only water," said Stan. "I'm not trying to feed you any more of my 'devil juice.'"

"Good." Kyle took it and drank greedily, hating the way it curdled in his stomach but too parched to slow down.

"Better?" asked Stan when Kyle had drained every last drop.

"No," said Kyle. "I may be violently ill at any moment."

"You should eat something."

"I would rather walk barefoot across a bed of hot coals."

"Just a sea biscuit or two."

"No thanks."

"I'll go get some." Stan left for the galley, and Kyle waved an arm in his direction in a feeble attempt to stop him, but he was already out of reach, and he was not up to the task of moving just yet. So, he remained where he was, and quietly observed the nearby Token at his work.

Every time a pirate came by with a crate in their arms, Token would halt them to inspect their wares. Kyle was not yet clear headed enough to piece together most of what he was saying, but it appeared that he was instructing them on prices and bartering. After sending a collection of barrels on their way, Token turned to acknowledge his audience.