Who

Drex, Zavyr

What

Zavyr pokes Drex, finds a button to push.

Intended violence.

When

It is late night of the twenty-second day of the third month of the ninth turn of the 12th pass.

Where

The Wandering Disgrace - Below Decks

OOC Date 22 Oct 2016 07:00

 



The Wandering Disgrace - Below Decks

Dark and cramped lit only by the light of glows soon to give up all power the lower regions of the deck are tight and cramped. Wooden walls split the area into sections, their lengths moving as the ship rocks and casting shadows where they will. Hard cots covered with ratty blankets and momentos (who knows how safe they are?) mark spots of individuality within the dark. The lingering odor of unwashed bodies hangs in the air along with the persistent rank of the sea finding cracks to seep within.


The small section of the Wandering Disgrace that Drex has claim of might be the cleanest that any of the rest of the ship ever remembers being. His cot is free of stench, his trunk locked with three shiny locks and the leather oiled, his extra clothing folded neatly and even the square of floor around the cot was scrubbed, marked by a straight lines of black paint. Stepping into this square would usually result in a series of threats and over all, the ownership of this square and everything within was not up for debate. This was Drex's spot. This. This cot where the man lay, this trunk his shoe were atop, this. One did not mess with this because this was not yours. It was Drex's. Well, all this and that blasted sign he needed to return.

Ownership is, actually, not only negotiable but usually, when the youth Zavyr was around, questionable. If 'possession' is, truly, nine-tenths of the law, then the 'law' is very often on the foreign thief's side, it may seem. Though often, the lad is seen 'returning' items back to their surprised owners. However, either the very orderliness of Drex' universe succumbs to the Second Law of Thermodynamics, or perhaps that Law simply follows along in Zavyr's wake. The lad pads along, a pail in one hand, and a mop in the other, evidently heading toward that ghastly chore of 'swabbing the decks'. But Drex taking his ease is far more than Zavyr can simply pass by. The lad reaches over to pluck a bit of dirty mop-string out of the thick pile surrounding the wood, and dribbles the dry thread into one shoe, there atop that chest. "EVENING, ORDERLY! You weren't sleeping, were you?"

As it happens, Drex was sleeping. Was. His eyes open now, but remain fixed on the ceiling, he doesn't need to look to know that voice, "Hey kid, As I recall, you owe me a significant sum of money." He isn't about to defend his sleeping at this hour of the day as his work kept him up at odd hours and trying to explain such a thing sounded aunderous and more of an annoyance than anything else. "Sixteen marks, wasn't it? I'd hate to start charging a fellow shipmate interest on such a minor thing, but-" He sits up now, for the first time noticing that contaminated water dripping onto his boots. His Boots. His Clean, Oiled Boots. On his Trunk. In his Square. His words stop, eyes widening, and he lifts a hand, pointing at the offending water, tone turning hostile for the first time, "Kid, you have ten seconds to remove yourself from this cabin, swabbing the DECK is on DECK, this is not the DECK and THAT does NOT have any business touching my things."

"I owe you nothing. If you recall, I am Luciana's pet. Take it up with her." Zavyr's grin brightens. "And it's not wet. That's dry. Did you want water on it?" Zavyr bends over, though his toes do stay out of the line of black on the floor, "Oh. Wow." Softly murmured, as Zavyr examines the boot. "No way." He aborts a head-shake, though, and stands up and does, in fact, reach with two fingers to pluck the offending mopstring out of the shoe. It's proffered to Drex, "There. Here. It's yours. And don't mind that. Forget I said anything. Just go back to sleep. So sorry for disturbing you, Orderly." The fingers open and the string wafts gently to the man's cot, falling there. Friction holds it, suspended, half on a blanket and half trolling toward the deck itself.

"Okay, Luci owes me an-" He freezes at Zavyr's movements, narrow eyes locked on the piece of yarn. Drat, he'd have to steam his boots and blankets or something, they were contaminated. Can't have that. The moment the string touches his cot, Drex is up, dueling knife out, expression stony, "No Luci here. No Skirts to hide behind. Run." His tone is cold and flat, "Ten, Nine, Eight," he counted down, making good on the threat of ten seconds, though his numbers come faster than a second, "Seven, Six," His bare feet are firmly cemented within his box, but his movements are feral now, "Run ‘snake, Run."

No doubt the pirate mentality is as low as its general intelligence. So this promise of altercation, this newcomer's challenging Drex' weirdities becomes the instant focus of the other fellows in the bunkhouse, and one calls out, 'FIGHT, FIGHT!', which seems to cause more than just the original number to manifest in the dank confines of the bunkhouse. As most of the pirates' beds are swinging cots, they now come to loosely surround Drex's odd little territory. Zavyr takes a few steps back, spreading hands and thus mop and bucket as he tilts his head a bit, "Easy, Orderly. That level of tension can't be good for you. Deep breath. Now hold it."

Living next to Drex in such close quarters forces a respect for his square, mostly because of his lack of empty threats and the inconvenience of disturbances when living at sea for long stretches with so many people. While a crowd grows, they are all noticeably outside the Drex's lines. "Five, Four, Three," Drex's entire focus is on Zavyr, barly noticing the calls of those around him. There is a jostling of the crowd, most have seen this sort of thing before, but the thrill of it might be similar to cock fighting and one corner of the dark room is starting to call for bets. Still, Drex pays no heed, "Two, One." The moment he ends last word, one eyebrow rises and a slight smirk flickers across the man's face. The moment passes and Drex launches forward, knife flashing toward the arm with the mop.

The mop isn't his staff, but the lad is frightfully agile. The pail needs to go somewhere, so it's tossed - pity, without water - toward Drex with a good swing to lend its flight some momentum. But that lets the youth get ahold of his mop in both hands. And the mop swings in circular motion in front of him, the lad's boot hitting the deck of the ship as if this is a dance, and the sound a repercussion of accent to the lad's swing. Purely defensive, is that; he does not seek to hit Drex, but does edge backwards, forcing the circle of onlookers to also scatter somewhat. "And here we have a man, intent on some sort of meaningless but lethal harm, approaching his intended victim, only to be halted at least briefly," the words fall quickly, almost without consideration, from the youth's lips, "By a filthy deck-mop. Dirrrrrty. Oh, Drex - I've been meaning to ask - why the street sign?"

Drex's movement never stops, he ducks around the bucket, which lands with a clatter into his box. But he is single-minded in his work now, one hand unhooking someone's hammock-cot from the wall, dumping its blankets to the ground and flicking the other end of its hook, he stalks around skirting the room so he is between Zavyr and the door. There is the sound of jeering from the assembled pirates, the dueling circle wider now. Drex's stance is like that of a hunting canine, knife in one hand and hammock in the other. "You have your chance kid, should have left when you could." His tone is flat, but a shock seems to run through him at the words 'street sign'."No good deed goes unpunished." He snaps in answer to the question on the sign, He vaults forward again, feigning to the right with his knife, hammock trailing behind him, at the last moment, his foot plants, the hammock flares out to the left, much as one might use a fishing net, if fishing nets were weapons, and lighter weight, and meant for sleeping on.

Here-to-fore, the recently press-ganged youth has not shown some of his greater skills, but the time has arrived. Opting for the side of his antagonist with the cloth, rather than sharpened metal, Zavyr flings mop to meet hammock and then with a jounce and a leap, curls into a somersault to go right under the both, to come up on the far side of Drex. A spectator pirate doesn't quite scramble out of the way fast enough and is rewarded with a sharp slap on his thigh as Zavyr rises back to his feet with another leap that turns into a forward flip that once more collapses into another somersault. Inertia and the acceleration derived from the circular motion of this body not at rest produces something of an effect of a malignant throbbing human cannonball that barrels toward the door. Only there, with another hard slap of a full forearm against the wood, does Zavyr come to a stop. He turns, adroitly, to offer a bow to Drex, "Well done. You can add the ship's mop and bucket to your collection, Orderly. But I sense I am somehow not welcome here." The grin flashes, but the lad himself hies off with expediency, into the dark bowels of the ship, and eventually up to the top deck and the safety of the rigging, there.

Drex is furious. Drex is also impressed, which was all the more infuriating. Really, really mad. But wow. Damn it. Damn that kid. Damn them all. Drex turns and stalks back toward his box, hammock still in hand with the mop tangled in it and accompanied by a symphony of catcalls and jeers. He was going to let the kid off? Well no, of course not, he owes the kid a debt now. Not quite the debt most people would think of goes with the word 'debt' but for Drex, it fit. He knew he couldn't match Zavyr's speed, hence why he'd blocked the door, no point chasing him now, but he wasn't done yet. Nah. He kicks the bucket out of his square and plopped down on his cot to start to untangle the hammock and return it to its owner as the room defused into laughs and the picking up. Drex's mind turns over various coins of thought, finally settling on the easiest of options. As the night dragged on and the ship fell into sleep; Drex righted his little square, cleaning and thinking. By the time he was finally going to sleep himself, one would think the man had never been happier.

Add a New Comment