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The next day, Vector opens his eyes to the dimness of the brig, and it takes a second before he remembers where he is. As he sits up, the stiffness of the previous night’s rest hits him, every joint and muscle protesting. He groans quietly as he rolls his head around on his shoulders, every dull pop giving a bit of relief. He looks to Phyr’s cell, nearest the entryway: Phyr is still asleep, flat on his back with one hand laid over his belly and the rest of his limbs splayed out on the floor, breathing deep but not snoring. No one has taken up post at the desk yet. He looks the other way and sees Pannych, sitting cross-legged, her hands palms-up on her knees and her eyes closed.
He stands up and then stumbles as the galleon gently rocks in port. The creaking and sloshing registers then, all at once, and he steadies himself before taking two steps to the wooden bench along the bulkhead and sitting down. He looks over to Pannych again, sees her eyes are still closed, and exhales sharply through his nose.
“I’m awake,” she says softly. “You don’t need to try to be so quiet.”
“Oh,” Vector says. “Did you… sleep like that?”
“No,” she answers. “Just passing the time.”
“Ah.” He leans back against the bulkhead and stares at the ceiling. As he sits still, the soreness settles into him. After a couple minutes of increasing discomfort, he asks, “Hey, are you sore?”
“No, I stretched. Worked out the kinks.”
“Smart,” Vector says. He stands and moves back to the center of his cell, and does some stretches of his own. “Oh, man,” he says at one point, “That really helps.” Pannych nods silently. After stretching, he does a few sets of push-ups, crunches, and jumping jacks; then he sits down on the bench again. He takes a deep breath and stretches his arms out to the sides - he’s able to put a hand through opposite sets of bars simultaneously. “Not a lot of room in here,” he mutters, looking to Pannych. She shrugs and tilts her head, but does not open her eyes or otherwise move.
After a few more very boring minutes pass, he says, “Hey, my hips and back are still kinda sore - do you know a stretch for those?”
“Yeah,” she says, opening her eyes and uncoiling herself. “Here, let me show you. Just sit down, put your left leg out straight, and now put your right foot over it, next to your knee. Good. OK, now turn your left leg so you can bend your foot toward the right - you got it. Now your left elbow goes on the other side of your right knee, and you put your right hand back behind you - yeah, there you go. Now relax your core while you press your elbow against your knee, and-” Vector grunts in satisfaction as audible pops ripple up his back. “There you go. That’s the ‘Seated Dragon’ stretch.”
“Where’d you learn that,” Vector asks, as he settles into the stretch and finds the right amount of tension.
“An ex-Marine who teaches English at my high school started giving kung fu lessons this year,” she says.
“You know kung fu?”
Pannych chuckles a little bit and says, “Not a whole lot, but yeah. I just got the second stripe on my yellow belt. I also know karate and jeet kune do.”
“Holy shit,” he exclaims, waking Phyr with a start. He looks over, then says more quietly, “No wonder you wiped the floor with me!”
Pannych looks at him quizzically and says, “What are you talking about?”
Vector says, “Well, in a couple years, we meet up and hang out. And when you were at college, you met some actual ninjas, and started training with them.”
“What? That seems made up.”
“No joke, you showed me your rank certificates and everything.”
“Why would ninjas bother with rank?”
“I don’t know,” Vector says as he leaves the stretch position. He tries to mirror it, but freezes, and says, “Hey, show me how to do the other side?”
As Pannych shows Vector how to get into position one step at a time, she asks, “So how does this become ‘wiping the floor’ with you?”
“Well, I asked you to spar, because I wanted to see how a ninja fights, and yeah. It was over in one punch.”
“That doesn’t seem like me.”
“No, you didn’t punch me, I punched you. Or tried to. I threw a haymaker as a feint, but you blocked and just flicked your knuckle up into my elbow. It hit a pressure point, and it felt like I’d been tasered. I went down like a sack of rocks, and the fight was over - it took a full minute for me to get feeling back in my hand.”
“Have you been hit with a taser,” Pannych asks.
“Couple times,” Vector says with a shrug. Then he’s in the stretching position, and little pops ripple up his lumbar vertebrae again. “Oh, yeah - that’s the stuff.”
Phyr says, “Are you telling Pannych about how she becomes a real-life ninja?”
“Yeah,” Vector says.
“Well, that explains these class abilities I have, then - blocking counter, disarming dodge, positioning roll…”
“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask about some of the stuff on my sheet,” Vector says. “Do you still have Alice’s book?”
“No, it’s in my bag of tricks,” she says. Vector produces the cell key, and she adds, “Oh, right. Yeah, better get that before they station a guard down here.”
“Grab my map, too, will ya,” Phyr asks as he starts doing stretches of his own. “Actually, just get my whole belt,” he adds as Vector rifles through the footlocker.
“Might as well have my bag,” Pannych says. Vector retrieves the requested items and locks everything back up.
Phyr reads the book and hands the map to Vector while Pannych mediates some more. A little before noon, they hear steps tromping down to the brig, too light to be Captain Starling. A lithe man traipses through the entryway, with deep blue hair and mismatched eyes, wearing a merchant marine uniform. He sees the “prisoners,” and starts.
“Ho, there! Didn’t know we had any prisoners. Hey, what’s that you’ve got?”
“Just a book,” Phyr says, hoisting it helpfully.
“No contraband,” the sailor grumbles, opening the desk drawer at his station and removing a keyring from within.
“Oh, relax,” Vector says. “It’s just a book.”
“No contraband,” he repeats emphatically. Pannych opens her eyes, but does not change her posture.
“Hold on,” Phyr says, getting to his feet. He dusts himself off and examines his character sheet, then holds it up to the bars for the warden to see. “You see the spells I have? I could escape any time I wanted. I’m cooperating because I choose to, not because I’m forced to. So let me read my book, and my map, and there’ll be no trouble. But with nothing to read, I’ll get bored, and then I’ll make trouble. Got it?” He rolls well on Speech, and the warden reevaluates his strict “no contraband” policy.
“I see,” he says, stroking his thin goatee as he looks over the character sheet with growing concern. “Very well, then. I suppose your… cooperation has earned you a special dispensation. Carry on.” He nods and hurries back to his station.
The galleon sets sail in the early afternoon, and while they can’t see outside from the brig, the map tells them their position and the time. Over the next three days, the “prisoners” speak freely in front of the warden, but not to him. He politely ignores them, in his turn - or at least doesn’t react visibly to anything they say. They pass the book and map back and forth between their cells, alternating who gets to read what. The salt pork and hardtack are not entirely unpalatable, but none of them is in any danger of overeating.
On the morning of the fourth day, there is a commotion on the decks above them. Pannych looks up from her meditation, and the others look up from their reading; the warden pays no mind. Many minutes later, there is a bump! of wood on wood to starboard, followed by another one soon after, and another immediately after - then the rocking pattern of the galleon changes, slower now. Shouting voices struggle through the sealed wooden planks to reach them, and then the clang! of clashing blades.
“Hadn’t you, uh, better get that,” Vector asks.
“Just pirates,” the warden says dismissively. “No match for us. ‘Sides, what kind of sailor would I be, if I abandoned my post at the first sign of trouble?”
Vector shrugs, and the adventurers decide not to pursue the matter.
As the battle rages on, there is another series of bumps to port, as a second ship settles against and is fastened to the Birthright. The warden’s look grows concerned, and he draws his pistol and saber before heading up.
Without a word, Vector unlocks their cages and the footlocker once the warden is gone. Pannych and Vector start changing, but Phyr starts fidgeting with one of his gadgets.
“Dude,” Pannych says, “You gonna leave your armor, or what?”
“No way!” Phyr hoists the gadget. “Purification ray. Do you know where these outfits have been?”
“Hey, you wanna hit me with that, too,” Vector asks. Phyr dutifully beams him up and down, then gestures to Pannych.
“Better safe than sorry,” she says with a shrug.
Once dressed, they head up top to see how they can help - and immediately see they are too late. The merchant marines are fighting to the last, but the pirates vastly outnumber them at this point.
“OK, guys,” Pannych says. “I have an idea - and you’ll like it.”
“Why am I not reassured,” Phyr asks.
“Look, we’ll get to play pirates for a while,” she clarifies, rubbing her gloved hands together. At that, the boys perk up. “Just follow my lead.” She cups her hands around her mouth and shouts for all to hear, “OI! TOSSERS! THIS IS YOUR NEW CAPTAIN SPEAKING!” The nearest combatants disengage and look at her like she’s stupid. “Hey, Phyr - I don’t think they heard me in the back. Give ‘em a warning shot, will ya?”
Phyr raises his hands and shouts, “FLAME!” He chooses a casting range in the shape of an enormous broad fan, bright and hot - it passes over everyone’s heads, but does not linger long enough to set anything ablaze.
“Thank you,” Pannych says with a curtsey, then turns to the crowd of suddenly motionless onlookers. “Right, then! This is your new captain speaking! I am Pannych, lesser goddess of fear and anxiety!”
“And I am Phyr, lord of destruction and chaos, whose wrath makes the very heavens tremble with reverence to my otherworldly might!”
“And I am Vector, their harbinger and standard-bearer!”
“Now that we have your attention,” Pannych continues at the top of her lungs, “We owe you kind souls a debt of gratitude for jostling us free with your boarding maneuvers! To repay that debt, we shall not kill you all - and we’ll even let you drop us off at port in Salinas. You can take these sailors prisoner, and divvy up any loot in the hold as you like - we’re not interested in such petty mortal trifles. But you will take us to Salinas, and you will all stop fighting right now, else we may not have enough living left to crew these vessels!”
She pauses to survey the effect of her speech on the crowd. They are visibly unimpressed, but not entirely lost to her. “Now,” she continues, “Does anyone have any questions, comments, or objections?” One of the pirate captains, obvious in his tricorner hat and epic green beard, raises his hand. “You, guy - go ahead.”
“Aye, an’ what’s to stop us slittin’ yer throats in yer sleep, ya wee pissin’ tykes?”
“That’s a good question,” Pannych says loudly, but in a deferent tone. “In fact, I think Lord Phyr can answer it best - though you may find his answer a bit shocking.” She turns to him with a flourish.
“First,” Phyr begins, clearing his throat and stepping forward, “Let me say, I deeply respect your beard, good sir.” The pirate captain strokes it idly as he looks askance at the jauntily-garbed dwarf before him. “No, I mean that - green hair, green beard, we’re two peas in a pod, you and me. Also, I dig your sword. Very curvy.” The captain draws it back unconsciously as Phyr continues to approach him at a leisurely saunter. “Do you mind if I take a look at it?” The pirate captain doesn’t back down, but every bit of his body language is pulling away. “I’ll give it back. I promise. Just let me see it? I bet it has a comfy grip. Does it? Huh?” Phyr is standing face to face with the pirate captain now, who absolutely does not know what to make of him. “No answer, huh? Rude. Don’t worry, though - I got all kinds of manners. Here, let’s start with a handshake.” Phyr extends his hand and beams at the man.
The pirate captain looks around, but all his men are just as weirded out as he. So he swallows hard and decides to play along with the weirdo. He takes his hand, and while they shake, Phyr says, “See, now this isn’t so bad, is it? At this rate, we’ll be fast friends. Why, I bet you’ll let me see that sword of yours this afternoon! Ooh, and do you have a gun? Or what about a crossbow? Like with the little… it’s not an arrow…” He trails off, still shaking the captain’s hand at a relaxed pace, with a firm grip, and turns to Vector. “Hey, Vector? What do you call an arrow when it’s fired from a crossbow?”
“Then it’s called a bolt,” Vector says.
“Right,” Phyr says, turning back to the captain. “Bolt.” He had learned from reading On Humanity in the brig that he can modulate the voltage and amperage independently, and now he uses that knowledge to turn the spell effectively into a taser. The pirate captain stiffens as Phyr maintains the spell, then falls to his knees when Phyr stops casting - but does not release his hand. “Now,” Phyr continues, “The second thing I want to say, is Bolt again. The third thing is also Bolt. But the fourth thing, is that Bolt. It is not wise Bolt. To start a conversation Bolt. With a pair of demigods Bolt. By threatening their lives Bolt. And I know that doesn’t exactly answer your question, but did I at least satisfy your curiosity?”
The pirate captain says nothing, but seems like he might perhaps be nodding as he shakes and convulses on the wet, rocking deck of the ship. Phyr releases his hand, and he collapses in a heap. Pannych raises her hands to her mouth again, and shouts, “OK! Are there any other questions that my friend or I can answer, before you scurvy dogs start sailing us to Salinas?”
There are none.
The rest of the voyage passes mostly uneventfully, with the adventurers sleeping in shifts so that nobody can get the drop on them. Typically, one will sleep, one will watch the sleeper, and the third will wander about the ship (they choose to stay aboard the Birthright). However, Pannych only ever sleeps four to six hours at a time, so there is a good chunk of each day when all three of them are up.
On the night of the mutiny, though, Pannych talks to Phyr as he beds down and quietly demands of him, “What the Hell, dude? You weren’t supposed to torture that guy!”
“What was I supposed to do, then?”
“I dunno, I thought you’d just kill him!”
“I thought you didn’t like me killing people?”
“Yeah, I don’t like you killing NPCs for no reason - but this was one bad guy, to intimidate the rest, who definitely would’ve attacked us if we didn’t establish dominance!”
“Right,” Phyr says, “And I did all that, but without killing anyone. Shouldn’t you be, like, happy?”
Pannych is flabbergasted. “Happy,” she asks in a hoarse whisper. “Happy?! Dude, you violated the Geneva Conventions!”
“What Geneva Conventions,” Phyr asks. “There’s no Geneva Conventions here. Who cares?”
“I care,” Pannych insists, “And not because of the law - there’s mostly no law, I guess, since the empire’s fallen - I care because torture is always wrong.”
“More wrong than murder,” Phyr asks flatly.
“I - wait.” Pannych pauses to do some ethical calculus. “No, I… you can’t. Hm. Hold on. This conversation got away from me.”
“Whatever,” Phyr says, yanking the blankets over himself. “I’m going to bed.”
One night, Pannych comes to Phyr and Vector with a trio of sacks.
“So: I was on the One Horizon,” she begins, “Just snoopin’ around, seeing what they had. And down in the hold, there were these bags, and I reached in one and found… sushi! And when I looked inside again? More sushi. And I think these bags just make sushi.” She is beaming with what strikes the others as an entirely unnecessary amount of enthusiasm.
Phyr takes one of the bags and says, “No, these are bags of replenishing. They hold one meal in a timeless pocket dimension, and basically paste copies on demand for a set number of times. So yeah, that one makes sushi, but did you check the others?”
“I… did not.”
Phyr uses the Tablet of Identification to determine that one of the other bags holds burritos, and the last one has cheeseburgers. They each have about 30 meals left, except for the sushi bag, which has a couple less.
A few nights later, Phyr is poking around in the cargo hold while Pannych is asleep, and he finds a crate of mana potions packed in straw.
“Oh, sweet,” he whispers to himself. He double-checks that nobody is around, and digs through the crate. The potions come in various sizes, ranging from a pinkie-finger-sized corked vial, to about a twelve-ounce jar with a screw-top. They have no labels of any kind. He reasons that their distinctive blue glow probably distinguishes them from any other kind of potion. He takes the Tablet of Identification from his belt, and chuckles at himself as he realizes that he can’t look at the potion and read the tablet at the same time.
Then he has an idea. He holds the mana potion right up to his face, with the tablet just behind it, and focuses intently on the mana potion. Sure enough, he can see the glowing letters of the tablet - but they’re out of focus and doubled, and no sooner does he glance at the tablet than it identifies itself. He tries again, and this time he’s able to read the tablet with his peripheral vision by holding it close up, and in one eye’s field of view only.
The various sizes restore 25, 50, 100, 250, 500, and 1,000 mana. He’s been spending a lot, so he takes one of the largest ones and chugs it in a few large swallows. It tastes almost like a caffeinated water he had one time, sort of like mineral water but with a slightly bitter aftertaste. The mouthfeel is refreshingly cool like mint, but without any actual minty taste; tingly like it’s carbonated, but with no bubbles; and slightly burny on the way down, in the manner of hard liquor.
He checks his mana, and is surprised to see that it has gone up by ten thousand points, not one. “The fuck,” he mutters. He takes another potion and double-checks the tablet, thinking that he must have misread it the first time, but there is no mistake: the tablet identifies it as a mana potion that restores 1,000 MP, but when he drinks it he gains 10,000 MP. “Weird,” he says quietly - and then he remembers his earring. “Huh. So it refunds when I spend mana, and I guess it also magnifies when I gain mana? But then why don’t I gain twenty an hour, instead of two? Shit, I haven’t been watching that closely, maybe I do. Or maybe it only works on potions and not regeneration.” He looks around, suddenly self-conscious of what he’s doing, but sees no one. “I’ll figure that out later. I gotta stop mumbling to myself in the dark while I’m lit from below like some kinda supervillain.”
He does some quick math in his head and drinks enough potions to top himself up. While he’s closing up the crate, he thinks to grab a few for Pannych - but stops himself. “She’d prob’ly say, ‘No, I can’t drink that, it’s someone else’s ass if these potions aren’t delivered’.” He imitates her in a mockingly snooty voice with his nose all wrinkled. “But these are just pirates, so it’s OK. Wait, no, the pirates are probably people who’ve been wronged by the empire, with legitimate grievances and towns to save from monsters. Shit, I prob’ly should’na drank those.” He cocks his head to the side for a second, then shrugs and closes the crate back up after putting the empty bottles back where he got them. He got what he needed, whatever comes next is someone else’s problem, and Pannych doesn’t even need to know. He dusts his gloves off as if to wash his hands of the worry while he makes his way out of the cargo hold.
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