Hayes sighed lightly as she watched the old man scoop up the coins and then hand them off to the waitress who happily took them back towards the other pirates at the establishment. She rolled her eyes before turning her attention back towards the Captain. She listened to what the old man had to say before grabbing the bottle of Shweinhammer Stout. A classic, and one of her favorites - though she wouldn't admit it to anyone outside of the core group.
"Aye Captain, it's true I've worked with some of the other Lieutenants out in Cambridge, Leeds, and even Poole. But they ain't have the drive ye had." She tapped the table with her pointer finger, "I'm gonna lay it on the table, I'm here fer me, t' be honest. Ain't no one sent me t' validate any claims of becomin' the Captain, everyone knows it'd be politically suicidal t' hold such a vote against ye, and the ones who've tried hadn't lasted long. I know ye enjoy runnin' the bar and all, but this ain't the way t' go out, Cap. The measily funds yer makin' here pale in comparison t' what we could be makin' elsewhere."
She sighed again, picking the stout up from the table and lifting it towards the Captain as some sort of off handed salute. "I hate t' see you waste away in whatever the 'ell this place is."
Morgan gave Hayes' words a moment's thought, then grabbed another random beer from the cooler and guided Hayes over to an empty table near the wall.
"Yer right about one thing. Not of the one of the Lieutenants, or any of the half-dozen or so idiots calling themselves Captain has the drive needed to actually do the job. They think too small, and half of 'em don't even bother with the Code anymore. The second I retired to be Keeper of the Code, some ambitious Lieutenant or another should've taken charge and called a vote straight off. Instead, as ye pointed out, most of 'em are too scared to make their play, and the ones that have think everyone should just get in line without the vote."
Morgan paused to take a drink of his beer, then grimaced at the taste. He hadn't looked at the label when he grabbed it and now he wished he had. 'Yuma's Best', the label read. A relatively new Crayterian import. If that was Yuma's best, he'd hate to try their worst. Still, no sense letting it go to waste.
"Anyone who was worth a damn died on Leeds, either fightin' in the resistance, or in the dyin' at the end. I could probably pick up the pieces, but I'm honestly not sure I've got it in me anymore. I retired to this place for a reason. Still, maybe tryin' would be better than stayin' here in comfortable boredom, watching me arse slowly get wider."
Morgan took another drink of his beer. It wasn't any better this time around.
"Tell ye what, lass. I've got a few things to check on first, but if ye come back in a few days, I'll have an answer for ye."
Today had been a busy day in the bar. An unusual number of passenger ships had landed at the spaceport, and it seemed like every new arrival had packed into the Black Flag. Morgan was mingling amongst the guests, making sure everyone was having a good time and not causing any trouble. The old pirate had given some thought to Vanessa Hayes' proposal, but as much as he missed the old days, he knew his time had passed. True, the Buccaneers were a broken, fractured mess, but fixing it was a young man's game. It was a shame to have to disappoint her after she came so far to see him, but it couldn't be helped. The Black Flag was his life now.
It was then that a short, blond haired young woman, no older than 19 or 20, wearing a 'Buccaneers of the Golden Age' jumper bumped into him. Buccaneers of the Golden Age was a Libertonian holofilm about the Buccaneer War that had been released late last year. It wasn't a bad film, but they cast a Kusari actor to play Wallace Dunsburry, and Morgan couldn't get past his atrocious "buccaneer" accent. The young lady was holding a fruity mixed drink of some sort, complete with a little umbrella. Morgan wasn't impressed with her choice of drinks, but at least she didn't spill any. Even bad alcohol shouldn't be wasted. She started to apologize until she recognised who she had bumped into. Her sudden childlike excitement was a little off-putting.
"Oh. My. God." Of course she was speaking in a Los Angeles accent. "You're Captain Morgan! I read all about you! I know everything about the Buccaneers and have seen all the movies! I can't believe I'm actually meeting you!"
She pulled a small holoimager out of her pocket and, before he could stop her, took a selfie of the two of them. When the scanner flash went off, Morgan felt something inside him snap. He looked around the bar and took a closer look at his clientele. Over in the corner was an old Rheinland couple chatting excitedly amongst themselves and pointing at everything. Over by the bar was a group of minor bureaucrats, still in their suits at the end of a long day. Everywhere he looked, it was the same story. Relentlessly boring. Was he really wasting his time on people like that?
One of the bouncers saw the look on Morgan's face and realised that the young Libertonian girl was in a lot more danger than she realised. When he moved to intervene, Morgan stopped him. "No, it's alright. She's not bothering me. Young lady, come over here, there's something I'd like to show you." The bouncer moved away like he was told, but he didn't go far. Morgan had spoken in the New London accent of his youth, and long experience had told the man that the Captain was at his most dangerous when he spoke like that.
Morgan guided the young woman over to the bar. The other patrons saw him coming and made a hole for the two of them. Morgan stepped behind the bar and grabbed a holo off the wall. It had been taken immediately after he had liberated a Gallic prison on Leeds and freed thousands of imprisoned Buccaneers. He showed it to the excited young lady, and explained where it was taken. Then he enlarged the image, focusing on one of the smaller details. A bloody, blond-haired scalp hanging from his belt. The young lady saw the detail, and immediately sobered up.
"Oh my god. Is that..."
"Aye, it is. The young lady it belonged to was a Gallic conscript, just about your age and height. She died horribly, crying and utterly humiliated in every way..." Morgan paused a moment to look the young lady in the eye. It was an unsettling look. When he resumed speaking, he spoke quietly, voice dripping with contempt. "Just who did ye think I was? Some tourist attraction or sideshow freak? Everyone come and see the once-great Henry Morgan! Bah! I'm a thief, rapist, and murderer many times over, and easily the most dangerous person ye'll ever meet in yer useless life. I was a crime boss years before ye were a twinkle in yer fathers' eye, and I don't need the likes of ye fawnin' over me! I've had it with bein' a damned museum exhibit!"
As Morgan spoke, he saw the now thoroughly frightened young woman backing away from the bar then turning heel and running out the door as quick as she could get through the crowd. Good for her. The farther she stayed away from men like him, the better. Her drink sat abandoned on the bar in front of him. He stared at the half-empty, multicoloured cocktail, then came to a decision. He picked the glass up off the bar and threw it into the crowd, where it shattered on the back of a dockworkers head. As the man fell to the floor, the room went silent, every eye on Morgan.
"Everybody out! Bar's closed."
The crowd hesitated for a moment, unsure if he actually meant it. Morgan grabbed a short rifle from under the bar and fired it at the ceiling. The bar patrons took the hint and filed out through the door as quickly as they could. As soon as the bar was empty, he pointed at the bouncer that tried to bail him out earlier. He was filled with an energy and resolve that none of his people had seen in years.
"You, you're on 'Captain' Martland's crew, ain't ye?"
"Aye, I am."
"Good. I want his head on me bar within the hour."
"Sir?"
"Ye heard me! Ye think I didn't know about that scuffle last week where yer boys ambushed O'Shea's crew in violation of parley? And that's not the first time Martland's broken the Code, either. I'm takin' charge again, and we're done with that shite! Martland's head, on me bar. Go!"
Morgan could see from the look on the man's face that the order would be followed. Elias Martland paid his people well, but otherwise didn't inspire much loyalty, and more of his people were uncomfortable with his relaxed attitude towards the Code than he realised. Nobody would mourn his death. Morgan turned to the bartender.
"Call down to the spaceport and have 'em get the Satisfaction ready to launch. We're leavin' before the end of the day. After you're done with that, call O'shea and the other so-called Captains and Lieutenants, and tell 'em I'm runnin' the show again. If they don't like it, they can call a vote. Elsewise they can get in line or I'll have their heads next to Martland's. The rest o' ye, start cratin' up the rest o' this junk and get it to the Satisfaction."
Vanessa had been sulking around among the various tourists, workers, and even fellow scoundrels who had came to call the place home. She was working her usual bit, pick pocketing folks of various backgrounds, mostly because it was easy, and mostly because she was bored. Especially the old Rheinland couple who seemed to be completely enthralled with where they were located. Certainly they didn't need their credit chits anymore, hell, Vanessa thought they liked it so much here that they didn't even need their boarding papers. She smiled softly sticking the various amounts of credit chits into her pocket - she'd deal with transferring them all over to her account a bit later.
After a bit of wandering around through the crowd, she began making her way towards the bar. Waving down one of the barkeepers, she ordered her favorite Rheinland Stout and shifted towards leaning against the table as she waited for her drink to be poured. Her blue eyes danced across the various faces of roughly everyone within the bar, only settling upon a blond chick who had just taken a selfie with the Captain himself, and boy did he look pissed off. She smirked, whistling softly, but apparently it was just loud enough for the person next to her to hear. The man who she had her back towards leaned over to her and placed his hand on the small of her back, which caused her smile and then slowly remove the knife she had sheathed on her belt. Slowly she turned around, resting the knife underneath her arm as she used her free arm to move the man's hand back onto the table.
The man was smirking ear to ear as she looked him in the eye. "What's a cute thing like you doing in a place like this?" The man asked, clearly drunk. Though she was partially surprised at his ability to not slur and trip over his words. She lifted up the seven inch long blade she had, turned towards the bar itself and slammed the knife through the man's hand, pinning it to the bar top, then she reached for her stout that had just been sat down in front of her. The man screamed in pain and started yelling profanities at her - of course this had only caught some of the other patron's attention, and no one but the barkeep could really see what was going on, nor did they really care. After a good few seconds of him yelling at her, she sat the flagon down and turned towards him, reaching up and placing a finger on his lips, the motion caused him to abruptly shut up. "Now... ye listen t' me, and I'm only gonna tell ye this once. Ye keep yer dirty hands off of other folks. 'specially women. 'Specially women with knives readily at hand. Yer damn lucky I didn't decide t' take a finger with me. Got plenty of 'em ye see. Quite a fun past time." She paused, reaching for the handle of the knife and yanking it out violently, which caused the man to pull his hand away and began clutching it. "Now do yerself a favor, and keep yer filthy mouth shut while ye make yer way t' the bloody door. Ye say one more thing t' me and I'll cut yer bloody tongue out of yer skull. Aye?" She finished, laying the bloody knife down next to the bloody hand print from where the man's hand had been moments ago, she picked up her flagon again and took a large swig, and only shot a side eye towards where the man had been sitting - apparently he took her warning in stride and fled from the room.
Which was just about the time where she heard the Captain's voice boom, telling everyone to get out. A small smirk appeared on the corner of her lips as she slowly sat the flagon down, and just on queue with setting the flagon down a gun shot rang out, and this time the Captain made damn sure that everyone was leaving. "Cap'n's back." She said, smiling softly as she slowly spun around on the barstool, bloody knife in hand as she watched the people beginning to file out of the door. As the crowd began thinning out, she remained where she was, watching the Captain talking with a bouncer, the exchange was brief and the bouncer looked a bit confused for a moment before he nodded and quickly left the bar. Once the bar was empty from the patron's and the rest of the staff began shuffling around to packing the bar up, Hayes called out from where she was sitting. "Hope ye don't want me t' be leavin' either Cap'n. I just got 'ere. But uh... good t' see yer done bein' a tourist attraction." She commented, slowly wiping the blade off on her pant leg, after a moment she sheathed the knife back onto her belt and slipped off the stool. "On the other hand, Cap'n. I have a couple of the boys downtown causin' trouble t' keep the police busy fer a bit. Figured it might come in handy knowin' that ye may decide t' discharge a weapon among a crowd of civies. So we'll have a bit of time t' make sure we're gone."
Slipping in unnoticed, the woman, in mercenary pilot fatigues, found a table in the back smoke room and ordered a pint. Removing the beanie, a bright orange hair showed up, causing some eyes to turn at her but quickly they ignored her presence or just took a good look and returned to whatever was the discussion at the moment. Asking for a pint, while the waiter cleaned the table with a dirty rag, she pulled her data-pad and leaned back.
The Silver Reaver, in a Bretonian pub. She chuckled at the irony.
[8:32:45 PM] Dusty Lens: Oh no, let me get that. Hello? Oh it's my grandma. She says to be roleplay.
[12:12:00] Traxit: this is smut stop
![[Image: L4Dc5Fv.png]](http://i.imgur.com/L4Dc5Fv.png)
![[Image: pyBjInU.png]](https://i.imgur.com/pyBjInU.png)
![[Image: vnFV6QG.png]](https://i.imgur.com/vnFV6QG.png)