Indebted (working title)

Rose (part 2)

He had never had trouble finding work aboard ships. He was tall and strong, qualities most captains found invaluable in a deck hand, and his time spent working in Paula's tavern had made him semi-capable in the kitchen. Through virtue of a single conversation he'd gone from perfect stranger to indispensable crewmate. He was a gunner, a cook, and due to his ability to cut off a limb with one clean strike should it become infected, a surgeon. Preacher had lost three men when ceasing the Spanish ship "Minerva" , and Shakale had convinced him that he alone could replace all three for a fraction of the price. He made acquaintances on the Rose quickly, but made a point to not regard any of them friends, they were disposable, everyone was. Most of the crew we hard men, men who'd seen battle and learned to love it, simple thugs emboldened the power and reputation that Preacher's fleet commanded, but some were different.

A woman with jet black hair and tan white skin stood out to him, she was lean but visibly strong and intense eyes that he could spot in a crowd from almost anywhere on the deck. Her name was Clara, but the hand full of gunners that preacher had assigned her, referred to her as "Fuse". She was the Rose's master gunner, and said to be the best there was on the seven seas and there was also Turk, a redhaired freckled faced kid no older than twelve, that Fuse had "rescued" from a plundered fort and trained as a powder monkey. Shakale, growing bored watching the sunrise descended to the first of the Rose's lower levels where he found Turk kneeling next to a pile of pistols and rifles, meticulously cleaning them with rags.

"So where are you from", Turk asked without looking up as if he could sense Shakale enter the room. He It was hot in the Ship's guts and Turk was sweating so much that his eyes were bloodshot from his own salt. Still, he wore a wide grin that exposed his missing front tooth.

"I'm from a lot of places", he said with a sigh as he took a rag from the boy and kneeled to help him.

"yeah but where are you from from? Like where did you come from?"

"Does it matter?".

"Of course it does! Everyone is from somewhere... are you embarrassed about it? It's okay if you are, Fuse says the people in the Fort where I'm from were soft. She says they couldn't even hold a pistol straight! No place for someone like me! "

"Someone like you?", Shakale said with a smirk, knowing that an opportunity to talk about himself was the best way to distract Turk.

"A pirate!", Turke proclaimed proudly. "Fuse said she could see it in my eyes, said I was practially born for it".

"Then why are you down here cleaning rifles instead of sailing your own ship", Shakale said with a grin.

"Fuse says, 'you gotta start somewhere'"

"Fuse says a lot of things I guess".

"Yeah... I guess I do.", said a female voice from the corner of the room. Shakale hadn't noticed her at first, she was sat cross-legged in the dark with her light grey eyes to the ceiling. She'd been drinking, she was always drinking. "I don't remember asking you to help him with these guns, Shakale".

"The kid has a lot of work to do I just though--"

"We all have a job to do Shakale", She said sternly, cutting him off. "Doing his for him... will make him weak".

"It's my fault!", Turk interjected. He was polishing his rifle more furiously now, as if making it spotless in record time might save him from her ire.

"It certainly... is, but your friend... should know better.".

"Know better", Shakale repeated with a chuckle. "What I 'know' is that if my rifle is to be cleaned, I want to make sure it's done right."
Fuse raised an eyebrow and stepped out of the shadows. She grabbed Turk's arm and forcefully pulled him to his feet in one quick yank. Shakale could see him suppressing a yelp, his face contorting into a pained wince. In that moment, for a brief second, Shakale didn't see Turk, the boy's red hair and turned brown, as did his pale white skin, and his bright green eyes. In that instant his face became that of another child, one that he'd seen before, maybe it was a kid from the Almsgiver. Maybe he'd seen his face aboard the Tyrant, or the Fallen Angel. Maybe he'd seen the child on the Kind Heart or the Majestic... he couldn't remember, he didn't need to... he knew the child was dead, and he knew from the pang he felt in his chest when his mind conjured the image... that he'd watched him die.

"Did you hear that, Turk", Fuse said. "Shakale doesn't think you can clean a rifle which means... he thinks I never taught you to clean a rifle. Are you going to deal with this disrespect, or should I?"

"i-- I can--", Turk's face was his own again but all of the confidence had been drained out of it. For all of his bravado he was still just a child. There was no telling what this woman had done to him to inspire such fear in him, but Shakale knew it must have been terrible.

Shakale had a choice to make, often times life aboard a ship called for one to choose between refusing to show weakness and swallowing their pride. Shakale chose the latter, he was practiced at this course of action. He held out the rifle and Turk took it with a shaking hand. "I meant no disrespect, I hope you can forgive me" said Shakale.

Fuse smirked and said, "We'll do our best to forgive". Then she tapped Turk on the shoulder making his bony frame jolt, with surprise. He got the signal and his head tilted back so that his panicked eyes could meet Shakale's. His fingers tightened around the barrel of his rifle, wielding it like a club when he slammed the butt of it into the side Shakale's knee. the blow made him buckle. He'd seen it coming but never would have imagined such a small child could conjure so much force.

Fuse. chuckled softly before taking a swig of the bottle she'd concealed in her coat and strolling away, as she descended the staircase into the galley. "Come along Turk", She called back. "I'll let Preacher know that Shakale will be handling the rest of the guns. you look like you could use a snack".

Turk gently placed his gun on the floor and hurried after her but not before shooting Shakale one last apologetic glance. Shakale, who was struggling to stand and who's knee was radiating with slow pulses of extreme pain, did not accept.