Shitposts, But Sailor Themed

I know Tintin is very special to many of us, and we're already a tiny fandom (especially here in the states) so I want to make sure I put my "best work forward" if/when I ever get around to posting anything. Like I said, my hyperfixation is on the Karaboudjan crew (and my fic mainly focuses there) so I am outsourcing the hyperfixation to y'all lol.

For characters, I'm mainly looking at getting feedback about Sakharine, Tintin, Rastapopoulos, and Barnaby of all people. But honestly, any characters are fair game. Even its an unnamed guy from panel 56 of issue whatever.

The fic(s) is a lot darker than the "cheerful" adventure seen in the comics and takes more from the noir and morally grey spectrum of stories, so I wouldn't call it a "true" adaptation. More "what happens when there are no right answers, and survival takes precedence over heroism". Below are two covers for "vibes"; the planned cover concept and a placeholder until (if) I actually finish it.

She only meant to stay for a few months, blow off some steam, and get some research done for her stories. The ship was supposed to sail away, the relationships were supposed to end, and she was supposed to return to her mundane reality, full of bittersweet regret at having loved and lost. She wasn’t supposed to care this much… neither were they. 

No one was… 

Really made the whole vanishing act she had planned a tad more complicated. Just a tad. 

“Thought you would have been more excited.”

Shadow’s skin burned under the calculating gaze of Allan Thompson, his sharp hazel eyes scanning her face for answers.

Both of them stood atop the wheelhouse of the Karaboudjan as she sat anchored, the freighter swaying gently in the protection of her berth. A stiff sea breeze, oddly warm for early March, buffeted their clothes; an early warning for the storm rolling in from the North Sea. The breeze brought with it the acrid scent of salt and seaweed, mingling faintly with the heavy smell of pine tar, coal smoke, and diesel from the northern shipyards. In two days' time, the ship would be battling the howling winds, sharp stinging rain, and monstrous swells on the ocean itself, away from the shelter of Antwerp’s docks, but not tonight. 

Tonight, Shadow weathered an entirely different sort of gale.

“It’s not that I ain’t, trust me…" she began, words catching in her throat. "It’s just…”

The smuggler’s head tilted ever so slightly, the way it often did in tense negotiations with too-curious citizens drunk on misplaced heroism or crewmates second-guessing their commitment to whatever scheme Allan had cooked up. But his face held none of the cold warning she’d seen in those moments, instead bearing a look of genuine confusion and a hint of disappointment.

“Just what, Ghost?” he prompted, voice level. “Watched you stare at the sea for the past two months and now that I make the offer, you get cold feet?”

Shadow sighed. “What use would I be at sea-“

“Don’t give me that bollocks,” Allan interrupted. “Both know you’ve got more graft than half them bleedin’ layabouts I’ve signed on. What’s the real reason, then?”

Shadow bristled at his tone. “Fine, want the truth?”

“Always.”

Shadow scratched her arm. “It’s… gettin’ worse.”

Allan leaned back on the rail. “What is?”

Shadow shook her head and tapped her temple. “What else?” she asked wearily.

Allan’s eyes flicked from hers then back. “Fog again?”

Shadow nodded.

Allan’s expression didn’t change. “Can't let that stop ya now, son. The lads and I need our navigator.”

“Howl, I told you," Shadow stressed. "This ain’t my stories. I can’t guarantee anything-“

“You’re the closest thing to an offworld expert I can get.” Allan clapped a firm hand on her shoulder, the faint tremor worse than usual. “Sea time, Ghost,” he pressed. “On a true-blue ship. It's yours!”

“What happens when I have a breakdown on the true blue?” Shadow turned away, or tried to, but Allan’s grip remained firm.

“Seen you weather ‘em before," Allan countered.

You've never seen a bad one...

"Any of the chaps give you bother," Allan continued. "Tell ‘em to sod off like you usually do.”

“What if-“

“Cut the siren, there’s no shell comin’,” Allan interrupted, voice dropping to a whisper. “You realize if you ain’t on this ship when we cast off, we’re gone. We ain’t comin’ back.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Makin’ sure you know.”

Shadow glared at him, jerking free of his hand. “I know, Howl. Think I ain’t tossed and turned for the past week?”

Allan nodded. “Thought Tom looked a little darker under the eyes than usual.”

Shadow winced as guilt simmered in her chest. 

Wasn't that the truth? The anxiety of the Karaboudjan's departure kept her thoughts spinning and her muscles randomly jerking with nervous twitches. Tom never complained beyond his usual affectionate teasing, but Shadow still felt guilty about kicking his bad leg even if it was an accident.

The man needed all the extra sleep he could get before they cast off and he started his 14-hour shifts... he didn't need to be playing weighted blanket to a spazz.

“Yeah…” 

Shadow trailed off, torn between chasing her dream and making the wiser decision as she gazed across the deck of the Karaboudjan, the metal hull still glistening after the last recent storm. The gentle ripples of distant shore lights on the calm waters of the harbor mocked her in their tranquility. 

She heaved a sigh. “It’s not a no-“

“Then it’s a yes.”

“Hold your horses,” Shadow retorted. “Ain't a no or yes. It’s a ‘give me a bit to consider’.”

“What’s to consider? Either with us or not.” His voice took a sharp edge. “Don’t want to be against us.”

Irritated, Shadow planted her heels and stared him down with squared shoulders and a lifted chin. “I’m with you, you know that damn well,” she growled. “Thought two weeks ago would have proven that.”

Allan stiffened, deck creaking under his boots as he pushed himself off the rail. Fists clenched at his sides, he spoke through gritted teeth. “Low blow.”

“What’s low is accusin’ me of bein’ somethin’ I ain’t."

“What other option do you have, Ghost?” he demanded, throwing up his hands. “Return to your old life? The one you left in the first place?”

“Ain’t that simple," she fired back. "And you know it.”

She braced herself for another counter, potential rebuttals racing through her head. Comebacks, evidence to prove her point, facts to show Allan was wrong to push her and she was right to resist. But instead the smuggler stared at her before his shoulders dropped, and he exhaled slowly through his nose.

“Aye,” he admitted, suddenly looking ten years older. “Never is.”

The fire fizzled in her chest, and Shadow's own shoulders lowered as she scanned his weathered face. Any feasible defense died in her throat; Allan scarcely removed that smuggler's mask, and Shadow would be damned if she punished anyone for risking themselves like that.

Allan turned to gaze seaward over the Scheldt. “But can’t…” His words stumbled over his tongue. “You… look, gotta close the old hatch ‘fore openin’ the new.” Hazel eyes fixed on her, weary and clouded. “You know that.”

Shadow joined him at the rail. “Aye.” She followed his gaze, staring at the approaching storm front.

The dark clouds lit up like a strobe light, low rumbles of thunder rolling ominously across the river delta along with a strong, humid gust that forced Shadow to quickly grab her newsboy cap before the wind snatched it.

If I weren’t so burnt out, I’d call that fun symbolism for the tomfuckery ahead.

"In for a real blow," Allan remarked, shifting his weight as another fierce gale howled hauntingly in the ship's rigging.

She hummed in agreement. "No kiddin'."

Mooring lines and riveted metal groaned in protest as the Karaboudjan shifted in her berth, the lap of water against the pilings echoing up to Shadow as she too shifted her weight. A distant buoy chimed as the gusts disturbed the harbor, and somewhere a dog barked. Shadow glanced towards the second sound, straining to see the hazy streets beyond the dim orange glow of flickering streetlamps. Scanning the dockyards below, she peered into the shadows in an attempt to catch a glimpse of either the dog or whatever got them riled up.

A figure slinked between alleyways, slipping quickly from sight, but not before Shadow spotted the flat cap with a yellow band and upturned collars of a faded grey trenchcoat.

"Arthur's lurkin' again," she muttered.

Allan grunted, glancing over his shoulder. "Let 'im," he replied. "Hold's empty, paper's straight, crew's clean."

Hasn't stopped the overzealous bastard from poking us with a stick. I swear if I catch him one more damn time lurking outside the warehouse...

Shadow let the thought trail off, replaced by a satisfying fantasy of ramming her boot up his nosy, government agent ass. Her jaw clenched, boot scraping against the deck as she imagined the solid impact and stuffy prick stumbling flat on his face on the uneven cobblestones. Maybe right into a pile of road apples left by the dock Brabants. 

The wind picked up again, bearing the scent of rain and brine, and she aggressively pulled her cap down tighter. 

A hand pushed her toward the stairs. "Go pack, son," Allan said. "Be along in a tick."

Shadow side-eyed his hand, staying put as she fought the urge to smack it. "I didn't decide yet-"

"You're goin'," Allan said, voice turning to steel as he gave her a final shove and turned back to the rail. "Already told the boss you signed on."

Shadow spun to face him, anger immediately burning her skin. “You did what now?”

Allan kept his eyes on the distant storm.

Oh, so that's how you're playing? I know tinnitus ain’t made you completely deaf, you assumptive jackass!

“What the actual hell, man? My time ain't yours to give,” Shadow spat.

“But it’s Sakharine’s to take,” he said, voice deadly serious and brittle as dry tinder.

"The hell it is!" Shadow snarled. 

Allan's hand tightened on the rail as he glared at the lower deck as if Sakharine himself stood below. His jaw clenched, the vein on his temple slick with sweat despite the chilly night, and metal creaked in protest beneath his iron grip. 

“You’re too close. Always been too damn close,” he growled. “Were always signed on to this crew, whether we-” His voice snagged, the following inhale sharp and measured. “Whether you wanted to be or not.”

"I'm not the one who set up camp in the other's warehouse!" Shadow furiously gestured toward the industrial loft above the warehouse they had shared for the past two months. "I was mindin' my damn business! Sakharine is the one who stepped into my life!”

Allan’s reply was gruff and biting. “Tough shit. Those are the cards.”

“Why do I need to pay the price?” Shadow demanded, voice rising. “That's not fair!"

"Life ain’t bloody fair," came the hissed reply. “Lock it up.”

"Allan-!"

"No, Shadow," he cut her off, voice rising to a shout as he jerked to face her. "You're goin' on this ship, and that's fuckin’ final!"

Shadow staggered back a step. She'd heard that yell maybe twice, and she did not like what came next. Never physical strikes; this Allan at least lacked that vice. But the anger, the disappointment, the foul mood that lingered, making the very air heavy...

Never had she been the target, Allan had been careful about that, but she witnessed the toll it took on the crew that found themselves on the wrong end. This Allan offered far more grace and leash than any of his alternate-universe counterparts, but that only lasted so long before you got a heavy-handed reminder why he was one of the top dogs in the smuggling underworld.

And Shadow loathed how the reminders made it far harder to ignore the dirty double life of men she trusted.

Allan's expression didn't change at first, but the glare soon faded, replaced by exhaustion. "Bleedin' hell," he muttered, turning back to the rail and resting a head in his hand.

Shadow shifted her weight uncertainly, eyeing the stairs to the lower decks.

Find Tom. He can calm Allan down. He's the only one who can calm Allan down. Where is he? Said he'd come by to walk back with me? Where are you? What's taking so long?

She started edging towards the ladder, careful to keep Allan in her line of sight. "I'll... I'll go pack," she said quietly, skin and face hot.

Don't cry. Don't you fucking dare cry. Don't you DARE.

Her foot had just hit the top step when Allan called her back.

"Ghost-... Shadow, wait."

Swallowing back tears, Shadow faced the smuggler again. "Aye?"

Fucking wonderful. Voice cracks. Can this night get any better?

The first mate waved her closer. "Come back 'ere," he ordered, the command tempered by a soft tone.

Shadow hesitated at the top of the stairs, the chilly rail burning her palm and tears burning her throat.

You're stuck with him for the next few weeks, on a 300ft metal coffin with zero ability to avoid anyone for more than a few days... don't muddy the waters.

She forced herself to let go of the rail and return to Allan's side. "What?" she asked, voice flat.

Allan's hand rested on her shoulder, tremors unmistakably worse now. “Didn’t want-…” he began. “This whole thing is nasty business.” He glanced toward the stairs, then lowered his voice. “Orders came down this mornin’... no loose ends.”

A chill raced down Shadow's spine, her fingers going numb at the tips. “I was gonna leave anyway-” 

Allan shook his head. “Not good ‘nough for ‘im. Wanted you… sent north.” 

True fear shot through her like a bolt of lightning at that, mouth bone dry. “Sent north?” she whispered, horror coiling in her stomach like an adder. 

North of Antwerp, along the border with the Netherlands, lay a sprawling estate funded by the… generous contributions of local philanthropist Ivan Sakharine. A place for the tragically insane, where they could live their lives in peace and comfort. At least, that’s what the public believed. 

Truth was, if Sakharine wanted someone gone or… removed, that’s where they ended up. Locked behind manicured lawns and controlled by sympathetic doctors who patiently listened to their delusions and conspiracies while not believing a bit of it. Perhaps that was the worst part; those employed there genuinely believed themselves the kind attendants of mad men and women. Perhaps a few knew, but most did not. Mix a few genuine cases in with the artificial, provide true comfort, and hire authentic caretakers, then no one would think twice about questioning your true motives. 

The heavy hand on her shoulder pressed tighter, another taking hold of her other arm as her knees weakened. “You’re not goin’,” Allan assured her. “Told ‘im you’d already joined the crew. Said I needed your mind intact.”

Shadow couldn’t help but laugh, high-pitched and unsteady. “And he believed you?”

“Aye.” 

How wonderful. How brilliantly and totally wonderful! Her mind saved her. Her fucking mind, the very thing failing her. The very thing inching closer and closer to the edge. Forget whatever lie Sakharine crafted, whatever poison he brewed… her own mind would do her in before she even reached the estate. 

“Anything else,” she croaked. “You couldn’t have picked anything else?”

“Can do it, Ghost,” Allan stressed, hands digging in. “Can weather it. It’s temporary.”

“It’s weak-” 

“Sshhh!” Allan interrupted. “It’s a rotten thing, Ghost. But it’s all we have. Make do.”

“Make do?” she echoed. “Do you have any idea-”

“This isn’t a discussion. This is how it’s got to be.” 

No. 

A poisonous thought swirled in her head.

No, it wasn’t. 

Her isekai’ing wasn’t a one-way street. The Nexus… reach that, and she could return to her old life. The door was open. The Purple Palace basement. She could use it. Could flee, escape this reality and leave it behind for good. No more loose ends, no getting shipped to the estate, no crew finally seeing the ugly mess behind the mask… 

That was always the plan. 

Could still be the plan.

And what happens to the men if you leave through the Nexus? When they can't find you, and Sakharine demands results? You know what happens to those who can't deliver... Allan's in rough enough of a spot as is.

But that was the plan. 

She had a plan. 

She prepared for that plan! 

What right did Allan or anyone have to go and fuck it up? 

You fucked up the moment you failed to keep your guard up. 

Heavy boots on the stairs and the tell-tale click of an old knee-brace drew her attention to Tom as he arrived at the top of the wheelhouse, lazy smile dying as soon as he caught sight of her and Allan's faces.

“Bleedin' hell,” he whispered, looking to Allan. “‘owl, what-”

Allan pulled Shadow off the rail and nudged her toward Tom. "Storm's comin' in," he said. "Both you get back 'fore it starts pissin' sideways."

Tom stepped forward, rough hand gently cradling Shadow's elbow. "Right, then," he said, gruff voice softening as he turned to Shadow. "C'mon, duck. Be back in the loft in a tick."

No. Wait. Wait! Tell him about the Nexus. Tell him the plan. 

What’s the point? He’s made the decision… no use to fight. Just get out of here before you snap, and they send you to the estate themselves. 

Face going slack as the last ember of fight winked out, Shadow let Tom guide her down the steep stairs. The first drops of rain splattered against the back of her neck, frigid as they slid down into her shirt collar, but she barely felt them. The energy drained from her with every step, Tom’s hand the only thing steering her even as his voice droned out.  

“Make do.”

That’s what Allan said. That’s all it took. That’s all she had to do. Make do, suck it up, get over it, stop being so weak… so sensitive. 

Couldn’t he see that she couldn’t? 

 It was coming. She knew it was coming. The storm was growing. The hatches were failing. The ship was listing. 

The alarms weren’t working. 

The crew wasn’t noticing. 

The captain wasn’t listening. 

She was drowning…