#intrepidim

“my dear captain.” all the proper titles, all the proper greetings --- a slight curtsy and demure smile, a straightening of her spine and a fidgeting with her necklace. she wanted to be the only thing soft out here, even while the ice around them turned back to water. as silence began to creep its way back to the room, she let out a delicate sigh, as if she was the one with the weight of the ship on her shoulders, as if she was the only one here who sought to understand him. “we are simply having a dreadful time of it, aren’t we?” 

old man, augustus dares to scoff within the private insolence of his mind. what do you know of what mistakes i’ve made culminating here in this moment of my most exquisite misery? i could be amongst the crew having a proper old time of revelry and wicked liveliness and not this suffocating display of politics and military ritual masquerading as a banquet. alas, my inclination for reckless self-immolation and the declaration of civil war with the half of my own soul that walks about this ship, has ensnared me. 

“my mouth is what got me into this mess in the first place,”  augustus mutters darkly, storm-weathered eyes boring into the champagne glass in his hand as if it is the root cause of all his suffering. my name, too, he thinks bitterly, ears still ringing with affront and beyond that, incapacitating regret. a foreign feeling, one that sunk within him like an anchor to the bowels of the sea.  “forgive me, sir, but when you were young scotland likely still had sovereignty.”  demure, and skirting the very extremity of impertinence, he chances a wry smirk from behind the rim of his glass.  “isn’t the point of being a good man not to make mistakes?”

her grin, rare as it was, came easy at his comment. “if i say i’m here to confess all my hidden desires, will you sneak me a drink back too?” she lowered her voice, gaze moving over the town around them, as if there was a secret between herself and the buildings. “i’ve been told i’m not much welcome in the market, but i’m so parched, see? doesn’t seem right.” 

☺ for a loving/affectionate text.

[ text to: ask for money ]: just caught the latest scandal lol  [ text to: ask for money ]: youre really not as bad as they say  [ text to: ask for money ]: honest to god at least youre more interesting  [ text to: ask for money ]: guess you could say im rooting for you 

♣ for a drunk text. 

[ text to: ask for money ]: C AN I AHVE SOME MONEY ?? 

“Play nice and you’ll both get to stretch your legs.”

Marcus addresses that, not to her, but to their prisoners––Jules and Roi––but she cannot pretend that she does not hear it; cannot be deaf to such an absurd concept. It shouldn’t be her place to comment. Violet is not a seaman nor veteran, at least not to any war Her Majesty would ever record; but what is war? Is it not the grappling of power between two groups ready to spill blood for an ounce of control? If that is the case then she is a veteran many times over. The scars on her hands, the bullet wound in her shoulder––long since scarred over––aches in memory to every power struggle she has survived and won. She was a captain once too, of her own concrete bound crew. The alley battles, the guerilla tactics, the victories; all of it, comes back to the forefront of her mind. A flexing of an old muscle. It is the tactician in her that urges to voice protest, but she is careful. Estrada is the captain and she does not forget to give him the respect he is due. “May I have word, sir? In private?” Tense politeness coats every syllable. And when they are alone, away from anyone who can witness a subordinate advising a superior, she continues.