The Colors of Fortune

Sea Mates and Gentlemen of Fortune

Captain Drake's ship was, despite the disorderly reputation of pirates, well-kept and neat. But the black flag that rippled high above Technoblade's head as he stepped aboard reminded him plainly whom he was dealing with. So he kept on his guard, watching the crew carefully and keeping his distance.

Drake was not, it appeared, a man to waste time, for as soon as Technoblade had looked about him, the man shouted. "Mr. Anarchist! Report to Mr. Farrel for your new duties."

The rebellious part of Technoblade's nature despised this order, but he bit his tongue for the present. If he was to get out of this situation, the only way was through. Glancing around, he shrugged. "Who the heck's Farrel?"

One of the men approached. "That's me. This way, Anarchist." Shrugging, Technoblade followed, wondering if the nickname would stick, and rather liking it. He was led down a set of stairs very much like those on the previous ship, except it did not go to a cargo hold, but to the sleeping quarters of the men. Then another set of stairs led further down into a massive room where barrels lined one wall and chests lined the other. The pathway down the middle was covered with a somewhat threadbare carpet. Technoblade wanted to take it out, replace it with something nicer, but he had nothing to use. So he looked around the room instead. "I find it hard to believe," he said to Farrel, "that you'd let me around your riches already. Where am I really goin'?"

Farrel turned back and grinned at him. The man's teeth were in better condition than Technoblade expected, but that wasn't saying much. "Nah. Yer station is beyond, in the bowels of this ship, like every mother's son of us when we first started."

Great. Technoblade thought of the ghostly boy and deciding against cursing him for the time being. There's always somethin' to be gained from every experience, even if it's just patience. Still following Farrel, Technoblade passed through the Treasury, as he was now calling it, and through the simple wooden door on the other side. There, he was greeted by a very different sight, for row upon row of cages met his eyes, and chains and a shelf on the far side of the room lined with what looked like rope. Technoblade glanced at Farrel. "And what do I do?"

The pirate seemed a little surprised at Technoblade's lack of a reaction. He coughed. "Well, you clean it, mostly. Keep the ropes in good condition, so the captain can use 'em when he 'as a mind to, an' make sure nothin' rusts." Pointing to the far left corner, Farrel added, "All yer tools be there, Anarchist. Ye sleep upstairs with the rest of us and take yer meals there too. But most of yer time'll be down 'ere."

Technoblade walked forward a few paces. "Anyone workin' with me, or is all of this my job?" He ran his hand over one of the bars.

"Oh, you're alone." Farrel laughed. "The last glob what was workin' here will be glad to know someone's taken his place. Everyone first starts 'ere, an' everyone starts alone. That's cap'n's orders." The sound of his boots could be heard walking away. "Have fun, anarchist! Someone'll check on ya eventually."

The door closed. But Farrel had not seen the smile that had followed his parting words. Technoblade turned sharply round in the room, his cloak whipping about him. "Alone?" He grinned. "Eventually? It's perfect!" Letting one hand glide along the cages, Technoblade began to explore the prison-like area, muttering to himself. "Everyone starts alone, huh? Clean it, keep it nice and strong for whoever gets thrown down here, and keep out of trouble. I can do most of that." The metal felt cool to his fingers, reminding him of his sword hilt. He was glad the captain had seen fit to let him keep his weapons without a fight.

As far as Technoblade could see, the cages had been decently cared for, though the hinges were rusty and gave out screeches if he moved them too far or too quickly. The ropes were dusty and a few cobwebs clung to them. The floor was also dirty, splinters and tiny pieces of debris scattered over it. Technoblade glanced at the materials he was to use. "You gotta be kidding me." He was no expert, but a mere bucket of water and a few rags were not going to be enough. "Oil, at the very least," he murmured, glancing back at the cages, "and a broom." He liked things to be neat, and apparently now it was his job to keep them that way. "But I need proper equipment." With a grunt, Technoblade turned back to the door and left the room, going quickly up the stairs in search of either Farrel or the captain.