Deacon Delon

deaconxdelon​:​​

-

The pirate had been anticipating two instead of one in the room. But he had looked for her tonight. Recalling a memory years old. 

Princesses never remembered such sideways meetings. Always another fête or a party to attend. It didn’t matter. Deacon remembered. In a flash, like a bucket of ice thrown in his face. 

He remembered. 

I am having this one all tied up, this is no worry. Eyes relaxed. He smiled. “I hope he isn’t causing trouble. Keyes is the ultimate traitor.” A glance thrown to the man locked away, hardened by the thoughts of years– not years spent with his family. The ones in which Maddox Keyes benefitted from ties to royals. 

A Welsh queen set him free. From an English prison. The audacity. 

A German king then kept him as a toy for a few years. Captor turned prisoner. Seemed appropriate.

And there were other rumors revolving around Maddox. A man who had once been a crew member. Someone Deacon trusted with his life on the ocean. 

On land– it was a new story. He would end Maddox and all of the good fortune given by royalty in the next five minutes. No more medals, no more influence. 

Back to the Portuguese princess. There were rumors about her too. 

“You’ve done well in not letting him go, Outlaw.” She wished she was one. A wave of one hand, a quick flip of fingers with palm up. The other hand held a pistol trained on her since he had entered the room. “Come here, let’s pull the trigger together. I’ve waited years to be done with Maddox Keyes.” Maddox fucking Keyes. 

-

“Together,” she echoed, hesitantly. Lecia glanced toward the makeshift cage where a less-makeshift brother was waiting. Well, he needed to stop waiting, she thought, and start doing something. Her eyes narrowed at the pistol. Softly, she exhaled. 

A year ago, a month ago, she would have jumped at the opportunity. It would not have been the first time she had pointed a pistol at Maddox Keyes, and who deserved it more?

Speaking of waiting.

“Why you are waiting so many years for to be done?” she asked. Lecia was not sure where the cutters had landed, but the best she could do now was stall. She took a few slow steps forward. Get too close, and she’d become the hostage. Who knew if Maddox would actually come to her rescue then. It was really a toss up.

“You are not catching him or…? He is too well for hiding from the bullets?” A feat that was as much luck as it was anything else. Divine intervention. Their last night on the island had proven that. For some had survived without reason, and others caught in an unfortunate crossfire.

”I do not think he is being very fast now. It is too much time for him to lay on his prince bed - his king bed - he is not practicing for to run. This is how I am catching him. I am telling you the story.”

Another step forward. Out of the corner of her eye, she tried to cage how far she was from the table and the chair. One chair was all she needed.

“First we are being in the Marie Antoinette room. You see it, yes?”

-

“I can’t imagine why a member of my crew doesn’t know the answers to these questions.” A small smile reached his lips. Voice dulcet, low. Calm. She made a poor attempt to delay the action. As much as he would love to continue with the playful ruse, there simply was no room left to do so. 

“I do know who you are.” Deacon pivoted-- his back towards the cage, a step moved closer. Almost within reach. Pistol trained on Lecia. “I don’t think either of us need to go on., do we?”

Lecia kept the focus on herself while Maddox took advantage of the situation. He had managed to quietly grab the bolt cutters and waited for just the right moment, and... snap. 

keyes-tothecrown​:

–

How did she get into the… nevermind, Maddox did not have the time or patience to hear about the ceiling. Lecia had avoided capture at least. However, if she kept looking at him that way any idea of unity would fade. 

“Why the fuck would I hide in a cage? And don’t look at me like that. Listen. I think I saw some bolt cutters in that locker over there.” He pointed. “That little box on the table has a small pistol in it. Don’t fire it, it’s not safe. Take it anyway.” She could at least threaten people a little more successfully than her tiny crinkled nose would. 

An antique he nicked from a red roped display. Maddox wanted to show Aaron. Aaron. The name sent another wave of worry rushing through him. “Aaron was supposed to go back to our room. We have to find him, now.” Get the bloody bolt cutters, my knife, let’s fucking move Lecia.

Guns, prisoners. It was a nightmare. He didn’t care about Simon, but. “Where is our–” Papai. Maddox didn’t know the exact aim of Deacon’s. The Outlaw had said little, too busy patting himself on the back for the bizarre and unexpected raid. “Where did they take Afonso?”

She could be answering these questions and helping him at the same time. “Lecia, please. Quickly. Get me the bolt cutters.” For fuck’s sake time was ticking. Maddox certainly wasn’t going to rely on Lecia as their only hope.

-

She went for the gun first. Leaving the lid off the little box, she lifted the pistol with her finger resting on the trigger. She was careful to keep it aimed toward the wall (and not anyone barking orders in the background). He had called it small, but the gun fit perfectly in her hand. Almost like it had been made for her. Was it loaded?

“I do not know where is being anyone,” she answered, tucking the pistol into her pocket, “They are everywhere. I see some in the courtyard through a window. It is not one place for prisoners.” Case in point, he was in there all by himself. But, for what it was worth, that cage was a good hiding spot. She wouldn’t have thought to look there if she were on the prowl for hostages.

Lecia hurried over to the lockers. She opened the first, and rifled through it.

“I find a sandwich,” she called over her shoulder, and Lecia stuffed that in her pocket too. The second locker was empty. The third finally turned up the bolt cutters, and a nice pair of sneakers. She slipped them on her feet. Just a touch too large, but beggars could not be choosers. She grabbed the bolt cutters.

“I am having the big scissors!” she announced. Lecia made it about halfway across the room when the door opened. She tossed the bolt cutters in the direction of the cage, and whirled around. Her eyes flickered down from the newcomer’s head to his feet, and back up again - a quick once over before she said,

“I am having this one all tied up, this is no worry. He is not getting away.”

@deaconxdelon​​

-

The pirate had been anticipating two instead of one in the room. But he had looked for her tonight. Recalling a memory years old. 

Princesses never remembered such sideways meetings. Always another fête or a party to attend. It didn’t matter. Deacon remembered. In a flash, like a bucket of ice thrown in his face. 

He remembered. 

I am having this one all tied up, this is no worry. Eyes relaxed. He smiled. “I hope he isn’t causing trouble. Keyes is the ultimate traitor.” A glance thrown to the man locked away, hardened by the thoughts of years-- not years spent with his family. The ones in which Maddox Keyes benefitted from ties to royals. 

A Welsh queen set him free. From an English prison. The audacity. 

A German king then kept him as a toy for a few years. Captor turned prisoner. Seemed appropriate.

And there were other rumors revolving around Maddox. A man who had once been a crew member. Someone Deacon trusted with his life on the ocean. 

On land-- it was a new story. He would end Maddox and all of the good fortune given by royalty in the next five minutes. No more medals, no more influence. 

Back to the Portuguese princess. There were rumors about her too. 

“You’ve done well in not letting him go, Outlaw.” She wished she was one. A wave of one hand, a quick flip of fingers with palm up. The other hand held a pistol trained on her since he had entered the room. “Come here, let’s pull the trigger together. I’ve waited years to be done with Maddox Keyes.” Maddox fucking Keyes. 

June 2021 Hanoi, Vietnam

“They arrested my parents.”

The air was thick with lotus and peach, the heady waves carried over the water. She looked remarkably unaffected for her words, a straw cloche hiding her blonde hair, a white and purple coffee mug in her hand. She could have been posing for Instagram. Maybe she should have asked Deacon to take a photo.

Except – that was what started this mess.

“Someone took a photo of me at Port Elizabeth. With the crew of the Reckless.”

It was clear how much it bothered her, the curl of her lip, the curt clip of her words. Lucy had never been a pirate in the way that Deacon was a pirate. She didn’t pillage. She didn’t reap. She didn’t even really sail, given that Stormbreach was the ocean equivalent of a small continent. She could have worked at a Hilton or a Ritz-Carlton, for all the similarities that her job held with pirating. Except it afforded her a living, one that she couldn’t have made anywhere else.

Fucking Swiss. The royal family was almost a non-issue, most of the time, fed fat by the banks in Zurich and happy to live in their chateaus amongst the Alps. Only when it was useful did they spring out, only when it was convenient. They trotted her parents out under a publicity stunt, every angle of their arrest captured by dozens of cameras. She took a sip of her coffee, ruining the latte art.

“I need to get my son back.”

Theo was three and a half, and he’d been in the house when her parents were arrested. But she couldn’t search for him. And she couldn’t call anyone up.

Lucy looked at the older man, considering. She trusted Deacon, a fact she’d never made explicit. She hadn’t needed to, before.

“How would I do it?”

@deaconxdelon​

Chopsticks were left in the bowl. Deacon began to lift a cuff to wipe his mouth, but nimbly switched to a napkin for the sake of the guest. Actions of the Swiss didn’t surprise him. Their famous neutrality had shifted over the years. 

Lucy dropping her guard was the only surprise at the table. Juggling the duties of Stormbreach required an unmatched diligence, an obsessive-compulsive relationship with the smallest of details. Excavating the tiniest risks for not just herself but everyone and destroying the DNA in a burn barrel only Lucy knew the whereabouts of. 

People made mistakes. And the Swiss found a vulnerability. If a monarchy even breathed in the direction of his children Deacon would sail into a murderous rage. Lucy’s restraint over her family was admirable. She didn’t need to be so calm. 

“I’m sorry this has happened.” To her, to her parents, to her child. Deacon took a sip from his cà phê đá. “If it were me, I would contract someone to get them back. Someone who had experience and knew what they were doing.” 

Fingertips brushed over the stubble of his jaw absently. Lucy would undoubtably pick up on the insinuation of who would make the arrangements to get her family back. “Do you have photos of them? Your parents and child?” 

“I have children of my own.” Not counting his stepdaugher Zaida there were nine others, although Zaida may as well have been Deacon’s flesh and blood. The waiter stopped at the table and the captain paused. Deacon took the check left on the table. Lucy would not pay for anything. “In the meantime, if you do not feel safe on Stormbreach, I would like to offer a place to stay.” The gigantic ship, of course, would be the safest spot but in case Lucy did not see it to be, he made the offer.

Somehow eating alone was even less peaceful than trying to eat while having a conversation. Enjoy your supper, the captain had said as if laying some kind of fairy tale curse at his feet for now he absolutely couldn’t. Llyr kept glancing toward the door after the captain left. Periodically a clink could be heard in the kitchen, and he would flinch away from the door. He considered picking up his plate, and moving to one of the tables closer to a wall. He didn’t. Someone had to be watching. Monitoring the choices he made.

He forced himself to sit, to chew, to look out the window where the ship he was trying to get hired on still sat at the docks. But for how much longer? Llyr pulled some banknotes out of his pocket. Dropped one on the table. The food was supposed to be free, but he trusted that about as much as he trusted being left alone to eat his food. They deserved a tip, regardless.

Fifteen minutes later found Llyr skulking along the dock. If they were getting ready to ship out, then he should be up there prepping with the rest of the crew. Wasn’t going to look good to any of them if he had a lovely dining experience, and then waltzed on board after the rest of them did the heavy lifting. He waited until he spotted the captain.

Llyr didn’t make any sudden moves. He edged his way over until he was in Deacon’s line of sight as well. Waited until it seemed a good moment to interrupt. He considered offering the man a cigarette, but ultimately kept them in his pocket.

“The Kiss. By Klimt.” For a moment, Llyr let his attention wonder toward the sea.

“You asked earlier what I wanted long term.” A statement, not a question. “I’ve not lived the kind of life that lends itself to pondering five year goals, and I don’t care to start now. But I want to, eventually, liberate a painting from Austria. It’s worth well over a hundred million.”

Not that he intended to sell.

“But until then, I can be an asset on your crew. If you have need.”

As Deacon assisted his crew to launch and suddenly the boy was there. If you feed an alley cat they will turn up sooner or later, and he did.

Llyr looked upwards, making the dark circles under his eyes more shadowed and sunken in the setting sun. A guy who had everything at one point and squandered it all. What did he want? An evocative painting. An image sold on tourist t-shirts in the bazaar not far from where they stood, on magnets in college dorms, keychains clutched in naive hands. A quilted gold leaf pattern of an embrace. 

“I have the need and I know you can be an asset.” Shit, Deacon hadn’t done this for his health. Llyr, royal born and pirate made. He reminded Deacon of an unruly teenager. A very specific one who grew into a first class first mate. 

Who still did his head in. But he needed that sort of fire, a chaos rumbling through the ship to keep everyone on their toes. To remember why they did what they did. 

Perhaps they would get along. 

If not, Deacon would slit Llyr’s throat and toss him overboard. Contract ended. “I like Klimt.” He liked Egon Schiele better, and they would discuss later. Deacon nudged a rope ladder tied to the deck and it unfurled to invite Llyr onboard. “Billy will show you around. Settle in, get sleep. Tomorrow my first mate will show you to the navigator’s office and explain what we need.” 

“I had no sympathy for her.”

Not quite the truth. He’d had little patience for his sister’s attitude on the island, and he’d said as much the first time they crossed paths. Her anger, thinking it was his personal doing that had landed her there, was misplaced. But he tried to help her. Offered her clothes and supplies. Watched out for her behind the scenes. Meanwhile, she’d decided to mingle with a Tierney. Who knew what she’d have sympathy for. He certainly didn’t.

“I want to work,” he said, echoing his earlier statements. Nothing more, nothing less. “I want to be a navigator. I’ve been pirating for over a decade. Be a waste to throw all that experience away to become… I don’t know, an interior decorator or some such thing, don’t you think?” His boyish face glanced up once, a cold stare across the table, before he tucked into his plate. What he wanted was people to mind their own business.

Using his fork like a shovel, he made quick work of dinner. What he really wanted for himself was to live his life without people trying to kill him all the time. Even just one day of letting his guard down would have been welcome. Then what? Could he be satisfied with sitting around, enjoying an non-threatening existence? Or would there always be a part of him that felt like it needed to get involved in things he should stay away from?

“Attempted regicide,” he muttered between bites, “High treason. You said you wanted details.”

Deacon took a sentence and threaded it with what he already knew of Wales. Interesting, the way the boy spoke with the entitlement of a prince even as he dropped thoughts against monarchies. His background was tempting but didn’t provide any more of a sense of what Llyr wanted to offer the Outlaws. 

"There is plenty of work on any dock in the world. Unless becoming an interior decorator would suit you best after all.” 

Llyr had completed a job. In fact, he still seemed to be in the mode of wanting to carpet bomb everything. Maybe a full stomach would give him a chance to better prove he might be a good fit. Deacon was torn in wanting to give him an opportunity to change the captain’s mind or berating him for wasting their time altogether. The only pause being someone once offered Deacon a way to get out of a rut he had carved himself, carelessly and with a fuck the world attitude as a younger man. Well, the attitude remained, channeled in a more productive way.

The Heretic would be leaving port in forty five minutes with a new navigator or Billy the Butcher pulling double duty to cover the position. There was plenty of food left for Llyr along with a view of the ship. Seeing the anchors drawn up outside the window might drive home the point of the meeting. “Enjoy your supper, Llyr.” 

Same old elephant in the room rearing its large head. Llyr didn’t allow himself to react to the news of a rumour, regardless of the creeping sense of unease that followed. He didn’t do much of anything besides sip his coffee. Silently. Gathering his thoughts. Lying could put him in a dangerous position later when (or if, though he didn’t feel optimistic) the truth came out. Being honest might cost him the position upfront.

“… Oh?”  He exhaled through his nose. Softly. Looked down into his cup.

His fingers tightened around the handle of the mug. Hot coffee was a prime makeshift weapon, employing both an attack of heat and a blunt object. Not that he was under attack. There was no reason Deacon wouldn’t simply turn him down, and send him on his way should the man find his origins to be too untrustworthy.

“I’d wager the truth is more far-fetched then any rumour you’ve heard.”

He paused.

“Short of it is, quite simply, royal families need an heir and a spare. I was a spare. Got charged with crimes against the crown. I was young, I won’t bore you with details. No trial, because a king makes or breaks rules as it suits. Verdict, guilty. Sentence, exile or execution, my choice.” Any connection there was tenuous at best.

Llyr set his coffee down. Shoved both hands back into his coat pockets. He refrained from changing position in his seat, continued to slouch against the back. Mentally, however, he was gearing himself up to move. Quickly if needed. Under the pirate’s watchful gaze, his knee began to bounce slightly.

“Monarchy is an antiquated system,” he said, “Too much concentrated power with no balance, and for every self-righteous Cardoza there’s a dozen more who operate like my father. Even Tierney was attempting to lay the groundwork for a family dynasty. As I said, there’s always a guy.”

“Oh, but I would like to hear the details.” Those would be important. The boy gave the appearance of a cast off apple peel curled up in the chair. But the long vowels of a royal Welsh education described his predicament. Deacon could envision a prince sitting in front of him and found it harder to see a hunger beyond the dinner table. 

Pirates were born, not made. Perhaps Llyr had it in him somewhere. Maybe he knew what he wanted and hadn’t found the right opportunity. “What about the queen of Wales? Would she not have sympathy for her brother?”

There was something they could agree on. He smiled. Cardoza. What a fool. The crowned head of Portugal had no qualms setting aside soft rhetoric to team up with Denmark in retaliation, did he? Deacon nodded. “Yes, there is always a guy. There is always a line of people wanting to wrestle the power away from ‘the guy’ too.” 

The food arrive, Deacon was about to give the boy a chance to eat in peace. “What do you want for yourself in the long term, Llyr?” A ship. A fleet. Atonement, revenge. Becoming a literal outlaw of society wasn’t merely a lark or gap year. Certainly Llyr arrived at his doorstep with more than a royal chip on his shoulder or wanting work.

“I catch it.” Lucy’s expression remained politely impassive. Stormbreach was large enough to have multiple identities on the same ship, her own neatly segmented. Work Lucy was separate from Not-Work Lucy was separate from Home Lucy was separated from Moooooom Lucy. As neatly as the counter separated their spaces, so did she draw the same lines. A quick glance upward, she smiled. A shrug rolled off her shoulders. “Might catch it tonight, even. You seem keen.”

–

The Enclave, After the Show

She’d checked out, swiped out, exchanged her black dress slacks and black lace top for black cigarette jeans and a black jacket, and anyone who wasn’t watching closely wouldn’t really notice the difference. Hair swept up, she waited to be served at the bar like everyone else – Stormbreach was made of rules and people who followed them – but Ben, the bartender, poured heavy and didn’t ask for a card. 

Arabella’s set had filled the enclave nicely, the low-lit lounge full of couples and throuples and whatever it was when four people were all sleeping together – was that just a Christmas party? She waded through the slow-moving crowd. It was after midnight, then, nearing the next hour, but for Lucy, this was an apertif.

Spotting another singleton, she leaned against the side of the bar, cocking her head. He was much a mystery as not; they’d known each other for years on Stormbreach, but was anyone really who they said they were there?

“And here I thought you’d be busy.”

Come to the harbor like a ship, and you’ll know where to leave from once you decide to go. 

Arabella sang in French, her voice darker and heavier than the original version she used to play on vinyl, on repeat. Deacon remembered the lyrics translated by Arabella. If I happen to lie, it’s because there is a hurt bird asleep in my memory. 

Later, she would sing a Beatles song in German. Or one sung by a blonde German singer but in English. She loved music from a black and white era, and loved to keep the audience guessing. 

Lucy appeared. The cornerstone of Stormbreach wasn’t unlike those mysterious songs. From another time, when reliability meant more than anything. Still incredibly relevant, because everyone could agree she single-handedly ran the place. 

There she stood, away from her central command post. “I am, listening to the music.” A finger lifted away from a glass to point towards the stage. Deacon smiled and nodded to the chair beside him. “But not too busy for you to join me. I haven’t seen you off the clock in a few years.” Lucy was never really off the clock though, was she? 

“I’m not looking to start at the bottom.”

He might not have a choice. The thought of running around playing cabin boy was almost enough to put him off pirating. If he, again, had a choice. His alternatives were shrinking by the minute. Smuggling would always be an option. The flower shop front might take him back if they didn’t shoot him for leaving in the first place.

Llyr gave a thoughtful nod. He listened as the man spoke. Weaving the story of some kind of perfectly imperfect pirate community. One for all, all for one bullshit. Generally speaking, the more someone tried to convince him that he had a say in any important decisions, the more they were actually trying to screw him over. Might as well be upfront about it.

“No disrespect meant, but… in my experience there’s always a guy,” he said, “Someone who wants exactly the opposite of what your describing. So how do you keep the bulk of wealth and decisions out of one person’s hand?”

“I’m not looking to train up an ordinary sailor either.” The Outlaws needed pirates with specific skills. There were plenty queuing up to take the position offered to Llyr, especially after the attack on the UN ship. Deacon imagined Llyr would realize the point, perhaps after the gnaw of hunger had been fed. Playing tug of war on rogue vessels was fine for some, but those weren’t the people Deacon looked for.  

The coffee arrived. “Oh? What is this experience?” A pause. “We want to destroy the monarchies, not become one ourselves.” Speaking of experience, Llyr would have to decide if he wanted to become an Outlaw himself. Deacon wasn’t there to provide comfort, offer the security of a 401(k), or give a PowerPoint presentation to sell an illegal organization as the boy sipped his coffee. 

Nor was this rocket science. Offers weren’t made to those unwilling to take a risk, and Deacon began to question if the person who had recommended Llyr had made a huge mistake in doing so. 

New sounds and smell from the kitchen gave a hint that dinner would soon be on the table. Deacon had a few last concerns. “I have heard a lot about you. Not only about what skills you are and how well you use them. There has been a rumor floating around that you are connected to a royal family.” He looked across the table at the dark circles, the scruff, the tattered clothes Llyr wore and waited.

Most of the questions that she asked were already answered by other sources. People liked to lie, sometimes to hide the truth, sometimes for the thrill of it. Arabella’s schedule was available on her screen, a litany of notes beneath various vocal appearances. She sang, but it wasn’t her first profession. Of course she is.

Lucy just wanted to know if he would admit it.

That was the key to her position, curiosity. And neutrality. Paired together at every step of the way, her own investment not weighting the scales in one direction or another. She would ask questions and note their answers, not applying judgment or bias. Data points at scale painted a picture, blinking brightly on one of her monitors, and Lucy felt at peace.

One more thing.

Attentively, she looked up. “Certainly, Mr. Delon.”

They held mail for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was hospitality. Stormbreach was a neutral island, ever-changing in clientele and location. The band struck up in the lounge, a lively, bass-driven number. Already, the evening crowd began to gather, their shirts unbuttoned a step further than the dinner crowd, less product in their hair than the late night. Lucy paid them no mind.

“Would you care to deposit it now, or wait until your departure?”

Arabella. The lash extensions didn’t agree with contacts and the spotlight did not mix with glasses. When the dewy highlighter was brushed off her cheekbones, little sun-kissed freckles appeared dotting all the way to the bridge of her nose. After one too many drinks (which happened frequently) the same story would be told. How she stood at the epicenter of her life, at nineteen, in front of an ice cream stand on St. Kilda beach, and felt the world shake under her feet. If Arabella didn’t sing like a nightingale, Deacon would still show up for the stories.

He was sure Lucy could write a book with what she had had collected in her head on Stormbreach, let alone what was tapped out on the keyboard beneath the counter. 

“Do you ever catch her show or are you chained behind the desk all night?” Deacon reckoned the answer was neither. He had no business in asking. 

Would you care to deposit it now, or wait until your departure? “I will drop it off when I leave the ship.” To be scanned, swabbed, subjected to whatever security necessary, but in this case entirely unnecessary. “Thank you. I’ll be at the late show tonight if anyone needs me.” Other than his first mate, Lucy’s database had the names, arrival dates, and cabin numbers of anyone who should request him.

“Did suit me. When we were sailing.”

Some people thought the island plan was short-sighted. Llyr thought that was giving their former boss too much credit. What plan? What thought had been given to present or future? Tierney had been a former pirate leader turned mad man. Majority of the time he wasn’t even around, and in his perpetual absences the community on the island turned into something akin to the proverbial Pleasure Island. Ending wasn’t too far off either. They all came out of it looking like a bunch of jackasses, if they survived.

He shrugged, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets. Normally he’d have been inclined to leave it at that, but this situation required a little more. This was more than a bit of banter amongst acquaintances. Deacon had access to jobs. Legitimate pirating rackets. Llyr needed work. Deacon had questions. He would have to answer if he wanted a shot at being a regular on the ship. The rest of the crew hadn’t been half bad, and he wouldn’t mind tackling another job with them again. He cleared his throat.

“ ‘s no big secret what happened out on that island. Spent over a year sitting around with our dicks in our hands. Thought there was a plan. There wasn’t. No plan. No payout. Tierney did fuck all while his kids ran the operation into the ground and his brother surrounded himself with princesses he had a hard on for. And that was when things were going well.”

"It was sloppy.” He paused. “I don’t do sloppy.”

He didn’t work for free either, but he kept that to himself. Deacon was willing to pay him this time, but Tierney had paid his crews in the many preceding years too. With actually money. Not just an unlimited buffet and odd assortment of sexy costumes stuffed away in a musty warehouse.

“I wouldn’t mind a coffee and a plate.”

No, the island held zero secrets. He had been there. "Those complaints are all too familiar.” Except the complainers had been shaken out since. Some left, some died trying. Others were elsewhere waving their dicks in the wind once more. All had been capable at the time. Well, some. 

I don’t do sloppy showed the man’s age. Few jobs were perfect. How flexible one could be in a state of imperfection in order to achieve a goal was a worthy skill. Much of it came with experience and was worth a lot of money too. 

Deacon walked over to bring back a plate, utensils, and a coffee mug. He sat back down at the table. “Dinner and coffee are on the way.”

“For those who want work, I have jobs. Paying jobs. Plenty of them. There is no island. There are no villas.” No princesses or princes waiting for someone to slap factor 50 on their backs. “We do not work to make one man rich, or to blindly go along with the deluded ideas of one man.” 

That would be a monarchy. “What are you looking for, Llyr?”

Loitering around port was a welcome change from life on the island. In some respects. It also had Llyr looking continually over his shoulder. For his former employer, for his sister’s royal guard, or for that shop owner a few blocks over that had been insulted at the offer of a euro instead of dirham. Somehow his list of enemies continued to grow without much effort on his part. Apparently he was the only person alive who wasn’t allowed to make a simple mistake.

Llyr chose a table in the middle of the room. Lot of open space on each side. He pulled out a chair, and didn’t scoot it back in after he sat. He didn’t take off his coat either. Too cold for that. Even indoors, the chill seemed to follow him and he could feel it keenly. Particularly in his hands.

“What’s it cost?” he asked, glancing toward the door he assumed lead to the back. Of course he was hungry. He’d grown accustom to three solid canteen meals a day, and his body was fighting the sudden change every step of the way. Deacon clearly had an affiliation with the place, though. A dine and dash didn’t strike him as wise.

“The job was… good,” he agreed, somewhat reluctantly, “Timing could have been a bit cleaner on the outer door breach.”

The man’s eyes shot around the room to make the safest choices. He acted on them, the seating option as instinctual as the refusal to remove a coat in the warm room. Familiar as the swivel of a comment Deacon predicted would come. "It costs nothing, it is part of the job.” 

The food was free but the man appeared to recognize transactional exchanges over kindness. Deacon glanced back to the Heretic chef waiting near the kitchen door before taking a seat across from Llyr. A carafe of water was between them and he filled their glasses. “Please let me know if you would like anything else to drink.”

After a sip from the glass, he went on. “Everything was completed as asked. Thank you.” A few nods. Llyr had done well, better than expected. The bonus for the work would be arriving in a few minutes.

Praise would come later if they reached the point. Deacon wasn’t there to sell anything or make promises. He personally knew what a lesser Tierney brother sold to a bunch of young and hungry pirates. The Outlaws were tight knit, they were an extended family. One experienced, fit in, or they didn’t. Work was real and so was the cash. It wasn’t meant to be lauded like a trip to Disneyland. There wasn’t a stack of coins at the end of a rainbow.

There was food, shelter, and like minds. People who would have your back. Real things not meant to be a bait and switch as what happened on the island. “I believe we crossed paths once. I would like to ask you something. We worked for the same employer. Why did it not suit you.”

The apology was rote but it worked, and she cheered up slightly. Already, her hands were working beneath the desk, keying in his name and adjusting the reservation. A black card was pulled from a stack, rimmed in gold. Swipe. Sheath. Palm onto the desk. “It’s not a problem.”

Deacon had been a regular on Stormbreach longer than she’d worked there, and there weren’t many who could say that. Pirating was an existence with a timer: her clients, the ones that managed longevity, were memorable. And he’d been one of her first.

“No stragglers. I’ll be here until midnight.” She said simply. More check-ins. She never gave up the location of her other clients, though. Even the ones with a red blink next to their name. Delayed or departed, sometimes, it was hard to tell. She’d been stood up enough times not to make assumptions, wondered about the location of a missing reservation until they appeared in her queue seven months later, alive and well. Nothing was certain.

The man behind him stepped forward as Lucy slid the card across the desk, taking the single duffel and offering an arm for Deacon’s coat. Lucy waited until he was departed before continuing:

“Sixth floor, aft. Next to the stairwell.” As requested. She turned away for a moment, the keycard still clearly on her half of the counter. Returned a moment later with a sazerac rye in a cut crystal glass. That, and the card, were pushed toward him.

“She is.” Arabella, always a favorite. Lucy was careful to keep her opinions to herself and her expression neutral, though her brow threatened to cock up again. “Is she expecting you this time?”

Once the floating impartiality of a pirate had been housed on a different ship. Before that, elusive uncharted islands. The vibe had been polished over the years and given a brand: Stormbreach. 

Arrivals, departures, and everything in between had not run as smoothly. Not at first, and then Lucy appeared, taking it a step further. I’ll be here until midnight. Of course she would. A landmark unfazed by the changes of course and shifting tides among pirates. 

Deacon draped a trench coat over a bent arm. The keycard sat alone while the woman behind the counter didn’t so much as disappear as she evaporated. Gone in a blink but not in a rush, turning up again to hand him a glass and slide the card forward. 

The key was pocketed and he took the drink with a thank you. The color and the scent brought back memories unrelated to Stormbreach, barely connected to the present path Deacon found himself on then. He nodded to the question. 

Oh-- one more thing. “Is it possible to leave an envelope for a guest who will be arriving after I have left the ship?”  A little something for Mr. Jacob Tierney. 

The Cave bar was closed for the winter. For everyone except Deacon, due to the history he had there. He didn’t expect the young man arriving to care why and there wasn’t a need to explain. 

When Llyr approached Deacon ushered him inside, and then the young man was invited to sit wherever he liked. “Thank you for coming.” The location might be sentimental but the spot was thoughtful to his guest. No pirate wanted to be cornered and the location on the Moroccan coast provided a relatively clean get away if needed. 

Deacon’s ship, The Heretic, was docked nearby. The Moroccan queen would soon be alerted. She would love to hang Deacon up by his ankles for personal reasons. A few years ago he wanted her attention. Today, he would pass. 

“Are you hungry? The kitchen is open.” Either he likes the kefta meatball tagine or he doesn’t. “At least have a drink, for a job well done.”

OPEN STARTER!!! 17 January 2021 Stormbreach, approximately 20km east of the West Indies

The elevator gave off a melodic ring as it reached her floor, a couple exiting and crossing over the deep red carpet leading into the dining room. Music filtered, louder than most equivalent hotels, though it was only in an attempt to combat the white noise system flooding through the vents. Privacy was important at Stormbreach. Precautions were taken.

She was playing on her phone under the counter, connecting a line of grapes to win a triple-double combination. Gold coins appeared on the screen, arcing up in a flash before being deposited in her account. Yay. A notification popped up – Connor logged on! Play match? She tapped yes.

The counter between Lucy and her patrons was high, made of rich cedar, glowing in the soft, offset light of the lobby. On their side, an inset box into the sheer edge displayed the rules of the mega ship. On hers, several screens lit up – one with security footage, another with the whereabouts of her clients, and a third with the internal messaging system used by the other facilitators. Tom was talking about a bad date he’d had.

Another ring, the elevator doors slide open with a velvet-like rush. Lucy looked up, cocking an eyebrow. The phone dropped quietly onto her shelf, next to an iced caramel mocha. Her smile was amused – but reserved.

“You were supposed to check in yesterday.”

“Yes. I am sorry Lucy.” An affable smile was offered with the apology. “The weather intervened.” 

Other delays had occurred besides a sudden storm. Inhospitable trade winds, low fuel reserves, and an unexpected pick-up asked of Tierney himself. It was the nature of traveling by ship sometimes. What worked against you had to be sailed around. 

Deacon brought only a small duffel bag on board. A man waited feet away for a sign from Lucy to take. “Am I the only one delayed or another straggler tonight?” 

His eyes turned up to a speaker. Piano and violin played. A calm touch of class and soft buffer masked the unique wrap of security around the spot he stood on. “I’m hoping you might still honor the arrangements for the rest of my scheduled stay? Is it possible?” 

No matter what his privileges might be, Deacon would never make assumptions. He was the one who arrived a day later, after all. 

A few questions still. First, the most important one. “Oh-- will Arabella be singing in the club tonight?” 

deacon.

Deacon was having a conversation with an amnesiac. Who would’ve guessed a Tierney could forget what it was like to be a pirate? A twinge of sadness for an old friend pulled at him, like a subtle tug on a sleeve. Sleight and quickly forgotten. 

“How did pirates die a few years ago?” An insulated life among royalty really had left an old friend completely comatose. “Either in prison or blown to bits.” Deacon had not shared Benjamin’s lack of confidence in this particular son. Yet he couldn’t understand why Jacob wanted to know how a man who treated him like shit on the bottom of his shoe had died. 

His arms crossed at the chest. “A small fleet picking off pirate ships to collect bounties caught up with your father’s boat. I don’t know what country or group of countries they were working for.” A few moments of appropriate silence and misting up of his eyes. Luckily, someone had been chopping onions in the kitchen recently. The pungent smell filled his nostrils and brought a nice sentimental glassiness to his eyes. 

He blinked and unfolded his arms. “Go back to Wales. Enjoy the new life on land.” Stay out of pirate business. 

Seven stages of grief flashed behind Jacob’s eyes like an atomic bomb detonation. It shouldn’t have mattered whether or not Benjamin Tierney was alive. He had been dead to Jacob for so many years that any confirmation should not have changed his reality.

Still his breaths came unsteadily, one after another, as Deacon went on to calmly explain what happened. Jacob let it all sink in one word at a time. Royals killed his father just like royals killed the man who was like a father to him. His best friend. And countless other crew members and friends. 

It was a shame the man standing across from him could no longer be trusted. He had so few anymore, but the ones that he had, he would bet his life on. Deacon provided so few details, Jacob had to wonder if the old man’s death passed on the power and fortune to him. A favored ‘son’ of Benjamin might have had a lot to gain in his absence.

Jacob stared at the pirate for a few more seconds. He knew when he was being dismissed. He pushed off from the countertop. “Sorry for your loss. Maybe one day we’ll meet again under different circumstances.” Ha. Slim chance. With one last lingering glance, Jacob turned to leave. Maybe he could catch up with Maddox before he left, and forget about this useless trip.

deacon.

There were no good old days to miss when it came to Jacob’s youth. It was all a blur of misery, pain, head injuries, and doing Roman’s dirty work all the way up until the island. But there a few good times. Maybe not so much times as people. Deacon was one. It was only slightly easier to forgive what happened with the man standing before him.

The conversation was like beating his head against a wall. Deacon spoke again with his eyes angled downward. It is impossible to talk to the dead.

Jacob didn’t react, not a flinch. So Benjamin was dead. That wasn’t a big surprise. Maybe Jacob thought he would have heard about it, somehow. Then again, he was never important enough to know anything.

“How’d he go?”

Deacon was having a conversation with an amnesiac. Who would’ve guessed a Tierney could forget what it was like to be a pirate? A twinge of sadness for an old friend pulled at him, like a subtle tug on a sleeve. Sleight and quickly forgotten. 

“How did pirates die a few years ago?” An insulated life among royalty really had left an old friend completely comatose. “Either in prison or blown to bits.” Deacon had not shared Benjamin’s lack of confidence in this particular son. Yet he couldn’t understand why Jacob wanted to know how a man who treated him like shit on the bottom of his shoe had died. 

His arms crossed at the chest. “A small fleet picking off pirate ships to collect bounties caught up with your father’s boat. I don’t know what country or group of countries they were working for.” A few moments of appropriate silence and misting up of his eyes. Luckily, someone had been chopping onions in the kitchen recently. The pungent smell filled his nostrils and brought a nice sentimental glassiness to his eyes. 

He blinked and unfolded his arms. “Go back to Wales. Enjoy the new life on land.” Stay out of pirate business. 

deacon.

Perhaps the question crossed Jacob’s mind more than once. Had his crew member connected to the mutiny been Deacon, would Jacob have executed him on Roman’s order But Deacon wasn’t implicated at the time. His death sentence from Roman came after the fact. There was a difference between sinking a ship and ending a man’s life on the wrong end of a revolver. But maybe that didn’t make a difference, none of it mattered. Jacob always followed orders.

Jacob spared a glare at Hirsch as the man made himself comfortable in the space of the kitchen. The solid steel tables and readily available cookware made for an environment of endless possible outcomes. It was almost as if Hisrch wanted to condone a fight. Jacob silently inhaled and exhaled to get his own hackles down.

Countless times he’d relied on Deacon. Trusted him. All it took was one betrayal. But Jacob wasn’t here to reignite a long dead friendship. His arms folded as he listened, leaning back against a countertop. Doing things differently was a luxury neither of them could ever had.

“If the outlaws wanted to negotiate, I don’t think they’d be slaughtering dignitaries.” This was exhausting. Jacob lifted his eyes to the ceiling and looked back at Deacon, trying both to remember and forget the old times. “I want to know where Benjamin is. All I want to do is talk.”

A brow flickered rising up. “Everyone wants something. The Outlaws are no different.” They were talking about pirates after all. Being with Roman’s mealy bland-as-oatmeal brand might had caused Jacob to forget what it meant to be a real one. It was no wonder the man who had once been a remarkable captain, feared by many, had fallen so low as to align himself with royalty. 

Deacon paused with his gaze dipping to the floor. Benjamin. That was a man who hadn’t changed one iota. “It is impossible to talk to the dead.” How desperate must Jacob be to think he could rationalize with his father after all these years? But the official line was Benjamin Tierney died several years ago. “I am sorry Jacob. If you came all this way to ask about his whereabouts, I cannot help. Benjamin has been gone a long time.”