Thread: Into the Black [missedstations & Bathos]

Remarque had only served on the ship for a few months, but he already knew it well enough. His time was mostly spent in the engine room for shitty pay. The captain had seen the obviously forged papers, and gave him a job that was little better than slave labour. Paying for silence wasn't easy. It was a far cry from what he had once been used to, but these days he had to take whatever he could get. At least he knew that this particular captain valued his skills more than the price of his bounty. Well, he hoped. He could never be entirely sure. Under their little pirate attack, the crew were surprised at how well he shot, but this was a job that generally did not lead to intimacy, and no one had asked him much. Who knew where he had come from, and what he could do? But he kept the ship's ancient maintenance systems in perfect order, and they hadn't needed any serious repairs until the attack. He was, most assuredly, competent. Why ask for more? It could only lead to trouble. He mostly kept to himself, and there was no one who knew his real name. When asked for it, he would always reply with 'Jack' without the slightest hesitation. When asked for a second name he would merely shrug and keep on working. If anyone knew him as Remarque, he knew he was in trouble. Who'd have thought that doing what he was told would have led to so many problems. He would spend his days only speaking about technical details, eating his allotted rations without any real enjoyment, and generally looking forward to the end of the journey and of his service. Remarque was most certainly good looking, even as thin as he was. He looked elegant rather than gaunt, but he was obviously a little too pale in comparison with his jet black hair. He got plenty of offers from crew members for companionship, but his lifetime of experience told him that there was little point getting attached to anything, least of all anyone. His only possessions of value were his gun, stolen from a military arsenal somewhere, and his most basic tools. With their pieces woven into his hair, they looked more like decoration, but they were there for a practical purpose. He could easily break through any vent, open any control panel, cut or solder any wires he needed. If he lost those, he would be truly unfortunate. The pirate attack was a catastrophe. Not even his apparent wizardry with machines could do much when half of an engine was destroyed. So the ship limped into Quien's port, and Remarque felt the fear that haunted him intensify. He knew what awaited him if he was caught. A show trial and either execution or a lifetime imprisonment. Since he managed desert at the end of the war, he had travelled only between the obscurest of ports, with men like himself for company. He could only be at home in places where there was neither law nor regulation, and lived a precarious life between bankruptcy and prison. In a place like this, he could not possibly be safe. His slender hands were a little less steady as he worked. He could not wait to leave. He would desert this ship right now if he didn't know that staying was his only chance of getting out of here. As soon as he stepped off the ship, he would be asked for papers, and he knew that his ones were nowhere near good enough to get him through.