“Y’know, after all of the mercy I’ve shown you cats, I figured you would be a bit more grateful.”
You think your captive audience was trying to respond to you, but it was kinda hard to make out on account of the gags stuffed into their craws. Still, the gaggle of tied-up, shaken, and very naked parrot “people” continued struggling against their bonds until one of them managed to dislodge their gag with mouth-work alone.
Or is that beak-work?
Eh, a distinction without a difference.
“You’re a monster!” the ungagged bird-pirate shrieked.
“No, I’m an asshole!” you cheer right back.
You signal to your crewmates to untie the ropes keeping the hot-air balloon dinghy they were tied up in docked to your airship, putting an armoured boot to the railing of the smaller vessel as they worked.
“Learn the difference, it could save your life!”
And with a mighty shove of your mighty foot, the airboat was kicked away, beginning it’s slow descent down towards the shithole that was Klugetown. If your boys had done their job right - which they always did - you’d say they’ve got about 7 minutes before they touch down in the heart of the city. By which point the slavers will have no doubt taken possession of them.
“Boss,” your lovable second-in-command calls out, “Food’s here!”
You turn with a big smile to see Grubber, your squat little hedgehog companion, leading the march across the gangplank from the fast food airship docked with yours. He and his following congregation of storm beasts carried huge movie theatre style bags of popcorn and thick brown paper bags stuffed to nearly bursting with tacos and other Mexican food, the bags already beginning to be stained from the inside-out by the greasy goodness.
“Perfect timing, boys,” you cheer, clapping a few times for dramatic effect. “We’re just about ready for the main event.”
“Yes!”
Grubber’s fist-pumping approval was matched by the grunt-cheers of the other storm beasts. They hurry to deposit their edible bounty onto the tables set up on the deck ahead of time, and only take the popcorn bags with them as they hurry towards the railings of your ship to get a better view of the feature presentation.
Speaking of features, the captain of the hour was still struggling in her binds next to you. Captain Celaeno, stripped of her tacky pirate get-up in lieu of the painfully boring Storm King uniform she should’ve stuck with in the first place, was doing her best to avoid looking at you, held in place as she was by two of your boys.
Though the gag she had on wasn’t a standard part of the uniform. Even if you wished it was.
“So,” you start, speaking slowly and directly in front of her face, “Are we gonna need to have this conversation again, baby girl?”
Now, you knew full well what she was trying to say through the gag, looking away and screwing her eyes shut with the beginnings of tears pricking the corners of her eyes. But you had an art to practice, an image to preserve, some principles to uphold, and of course, some jollies to get off. Pressing two fingers underneath her chin, you turn her head towards yours, gingerly removing the gag with other before turning your ear towards her.
“A little louder, lambchop,” you whisper.
“No!” she shrieks. “This won’t happen ever again, I swear! I swear!”
“I know it won’t, Celie,” you speak softly with an evil smile. “Because the next time you try this shit again, I’m shipping your ass down to the salt mines.”
You come closer, whispering into her ear.
“The Abyssinian salt mines.”
That drilled the fear of God, Allah, and Yahweh through their powers combined into her, her pupils shrinking to pinpricks while a terrified whimper escaped her throat.
With your fingers still under her chin, your free hand slowly, sensually, and deliberately uncomfortably undoes her rope bindings. She freezes under your ministrations, trembling like a twig and afraid to even blink wrong as you went about your work. Before long, she was free in body only, and you throw an arm around her shoulders, gently leading her towards your destination like a cheap date.
“Now, you’ve gone and got me all conflicted, baby girl. On one hand, duty compels me to spank both you and your boys for going back on the King’s deal like that. On the other, though? I’ve got a soft spot for the little guy. And you entertain the hell outta me, too! So I’m gonna make you a deal.”
The two of you cross the other gangplank, extended onto what used to be her airship. Hours before, this used to be a floating shipwreck courtesy of you and your troops, gussied up in tacky pirate shit and horrible rainbow feather paraphernalia. Now though, it was back to being a stock standard freighter, ready to move whatever stupid shit your boss wanted to be moved.
“You know that work pass I’m gonna give you?” you continue, holding said pass up in your free hand.
When she nods quietly, you fan the pass out into more than two dozen duplicates.
“I’ve got enough for your entire crew. That’s right, I’m gonna let you keep ‘em.”
She stiffens in your hold. Whatever hope was on her face in that instant was smothered in dread, realizing that the catch was her playing one of your sick games. And she wasn’t going to have a say in the matter.
“Provided, of course, that you can catch them first. I gave your boys 7 minutes before they touch down. And 7 minutes is all you should need to catch them.”
You come to a stop before the ship’s wheel. Immediately, she realizes the big snag in what appeared to be your generous gesture.
Namely, that you hadn’t started the freighter up for her.
And that she had nobody on board to help start it up.
“Please,” she whimpers, “You don’t have to do this.”
“I know!” you cheer, throwing both arms up in the air “That’s the best part! I can just sit back and watch while you put on a show for us!”
“Bastard...”
“In the flesh, kicking tires, and lighting fires, babycakes,” you chirp, flashing the passes in front of her again. “You’re down to six minutes, by-the-by. You game or not?”
Celaeno was already off in a flash. Snatching the passes from your hand, she tears off down below deck to try and start the airship’s engines by herself.
“So she can be taught,” you chuckle, stepping off of her ship at a leisurely pace.
The gangplank retracts behind you, your boys untying the ropes binding the two ships together all the while. Grubber had two huge bags of popcorn at the ready, one of them on offer for you. Thanking the little champion, you scoop up the bag and turn back around to witness the show, popping some of the salted, buttery snack into your mouth as the rest of your troops crowd around the railing, jeering at the scrambling captain all the while.
“Y’know,” you remark to your companion, “Have I ever mentioned before how much I love my job?”
Hours before...
“Aha,” you hum, “I see what you’re talking about, buddy.”
“See?” Grubber cheers, “I knew I saw something out here!”
“About damn time, too.”
“Tell me about it! I think I’ll go crazy if I have to spend another day out here!” he complains, shuffling in place. “Oh, please be the pirates we’re looking for!”
“Yeah, here here.”
Both of you continue to stare down your spyglasses at the developing cumulonimbus cloud way off in the distance, doing your best to make out the markings on the ship that was trying to hide in the cloud cover.
Key word being “try”.
Both of you were really, really hoping that it wasn’t just another freighter you’d have to harass for their manifest. If you have to deal with another one of those, you might actually quit your job and become a travelling serial killer.
And then, you see it. A big plume of rainbow feathers, sticking out of the ass-end of the hot air balloon. With a Jolly Roger flapping in the breeze just underneath it.
And instantly, you knew this day would turn out to be a great one.
“Oh baby,” you say, collapsing your spyglass and returning it to your belt. “We’ve got ourselves a marlin here.”
“Sky pirates! Oh, yeah!”
You ruffle the little guy’s hair before he can start happy-dancing too much.
“Save it for when we tag n’ bag ‘em. Now get your ass on the wheel.”
“You got it, boss!”
Grubber tears off towards the steering wheel, while you follow suit at a more leisurely pace, allowing you some time with your thoughts.
Six days. Six whole days of idling out here in the middle of bumblefuck nowhere, high in the sky above the burning desert, trying to track down the band of assholes who were raiding these stupid fucking Storm King merch shipments. You and your boys should be busy in the barracks, training for the big invasion coming up. You should be lifting weights and suplexing bitches, preparing to crush your enemies, drive them before you, and hear the lamentations of the mares.
By all accounts, this job should have fallen to someone else lower on the totem pole of command. Hell, Grubber could probably take this op himself with Biggs and Wedge backing him up. But no. The boss had to have his gay merch safeguarded at all costs. That cost being putting you, one of his top commanders, on the job, with a full complement of troops. Like it was a fucking invasion. And none of said troops were too happy about the situation, either. Even with you inventing drills and exercises on the fly, trying to make up for lost equipment and time.
Everyone wanted these slippery bastard pirates dealt with, and you weren’t about to deny them for a fraction of a femtosecond. And knowing now not only where they were, but who they were? Oh baby, it was gonna make the conquest all the sweeter.
Finally, you take up position next to Grubber, who was preoccupied with ramping the throttle up. The ship lurched forward with an arpeggio of loud starboard BANGS as the mighty pollution-spewing engines roared to life, propelling the vessel towards your mark while their vibrations thrummed underfoot.
There was gonna be no holding back today. You were pulling out all the stops for these losers, for wasting so much of your goddamn time out here.
Right on cue, Grubber passes you the old-timey looking conical speakerphone for the announcement system.
“Ladies and dickworms, this is your commander speaking,” you announce in your best airline captain impression. “Please be advised that we have a code 286 in progress. Repeat, we have a code 286 in progress. This is not a drill. Get your asses in gear and assemble on deck, pronto. Thank you for flying Anon Airlines.”
Slamming the receiver back into it’s pedestal, you fish a key from out of the depths of your armour, turning it in a slot on the steering console. Grubber’s eyes bulge for a moment in surprise as he sees you do this.
“You’re really going for that, boss?”
“Fuckin’ rights, I am. Those feathery bastards are gonna pay for shooting up my schedule.”
The key was raising a ‘big red button’ pedestal from out of the floor near the wheel, but you pay it no mind for the moment and instead stand ready to issue orders to your troops. Luckily, you’re not kept waiting for long. From every side passage of the ship, your army of highly trained and fun loving storm beasts poured out and assembled before you. Each and every one of them was excited, hopeful for some action. And after all, you’ve never steered them wrong before.
“My fellow Americans,” you begin, earning some light snickering, “Let’s just cut to the chase. Every one of us has been fed up with this op. I’ve had enough, you’ve had enough, and we all want this shit done and over with.”
If your crew had one quality they lacked, it was reservation. Very few of them were holding back their agreement, all in the form of wild gesticulating and their weird grunting language. Fucked if you knew what a single word of it meant. But tone, inflection, and sign language by people who don’t know a single motion of real sign language? That, you do understand. Thus do you gain the understanding of their words.
“We all know that none of us were needed to handle this job, and believe you-me, I’m gonna give the King a piece of my goddamn mind when we get back. But even if we are overkill for this job, overkill is what the ABCs do best,” you holler, thrusting a fist into the air. “And you better believe that we’re gonna finish this job with some good old fashioned, humongous, explosive overkill, baby!”
Every fist belonging to Anon’s Badass Corps shot up in the air, a loud chorus of guttural “hoorahs” sounding off as they give the ground a couple of synchronized stomps for good measure.
The airship finally passes into the cloud, both visibility and temperature dropping in equal measure as it’s constituent mists of precipitate whip against everyone and everything on deck.
“Alright, so here’s the game plan. We’re boarding these fuckers and trashing their ship. Gunner crews, you’re getting the front hookshot primed and ready to ruin their day on my mark. Boarders, I want commitment, so put on your best suits. Everyone else, get your arms a’workin’, ‘cause they’re going down, down, down. Is that clear?”
Of course it was clear, but it’s nice to hear their confirmation.
“Good. Oh, and one other thing. Don’t think I’ve forgotten that it’s Friday, fuckers. Once we’re done teaching them a lesson, we’re going out for tacos.”
That promise earns you cheers and whooping from all in attendance, especially from your driver. You’ve never been one to fuck your underlings, and you’re not about to start. They deserve a good reward for putting up with this bullshit.
“Now let’s make some rare shit. Dismissed!”
The storm beasts sprint off into their positions. The majority return below deck, but the few that remain put themselves on lookout duty for the moment, standing by to help with whatever comes up above deck.
Returning to Grubber’s side, your hand hovers above the big red button with the Storm King’s logo on it, sparks of blue electricity licking off it’s surface and along your armoured appendage.
“You got this from here, lil’ G?”
“I got it, boss.”
“Sweet.”
And with that, your hand slams down on the button.
Immediately, a ring of lightning shoots down the pedestal into the bowels of the ship, and the all-metal bowsprit begins to glow blue. The glow quickly intensifies into a blinding light as electricity begins to violently arc off of it’s surface, until it finally looses a massive forked bolt of lightning into the cloud’s depths with a deafening CRACK, leaving the smell of ozone and the tingle of both static and magic in it’s wake.
Right away, the storm generator was having it’s intended effect. The cumulonimbus cloud cover, previously a pale light colour, began to twist and darken into it’s final thunderhead form. The air pressure dropped by a noticeable degree, and the tiny droplets of the cloud were beginning to precipitate out into full-blown rain. After only half a minute, your visibility was nearly zero, your surroundings pitch black save for the numerous lights on the airship and the occasional flash of lightning in the bowels of the cloud. Wind roared as it blasted across the deck, and rain came in a chilling torrential downpour that not even the massive overhead balloon could completely protect against, battering against the storm beasts above deck. Being made for this kind of weather though, they barely even move in response to the onslaught.
With the weather just the way you liked it, you pull a very different kind of spyglass free from your belt: dark bronze and peppered with ominous blue magic sigils with rough, opaque jade lenses where glass should be. Peering through it showed nothing but darkness, right up until lightning flashed in the distance. The bolt was crystal-clear in the distance and glowed green like an old CRT screen, sending a wave of the same green glow radiating out in all directions. The wave struck against your ship, the glow outlining the shape of the vessel as the wave stuck to it and wrapped around the disturbance like waves of water colliding with a rock.
It also struck against the pirate ship off in the distance, giving away their location in the storm.
“There,” you call out, pointing straight at the enemy.
Grubber uses your cue to course-correct, and you keep your finger trained on them for as long as the phosphoric glow remains. As the flashes of lightning become more frequent, you’re able to remain pointed at their location more often. Before long, you close the distance enough for your liking, and you hand the spyglass off to Grubber, who takes things from there.
You make your way down to the ship’s bow, hands clasped around the metal railing as you wait for your eyes to pick up your quarry’s lights in the distance. No way they wouldn’t be using their high beams in this weather, something you had no need for on account of your trusty Storm Lens.
Once you make out the beginnings of their lights in front of you, you throw your hand back to signal Grubber to slow down. You pick up the nearby speakerphone, positioned at the front of the ship for exactly this kind of manoeuvre.
“Put us in stealth mode, boys.”
Lights all across the ship are turned off and doused, cloaking the ship from any prying eyes. The only visible light that you couldn’t turn off was the obnoxious glowing Storm King insignia on top of the balloon. But of course, by the time they could see that thing, it would be way too late for them.
Pfft. Like they weren’t already done for.
“Hookshot team, page me when you have these clowns downrange. Get ready to fire on my mark. Boarding teams, transform and roll out.”
You hang the receiver up, returning your hands to the railing. Shutting your eyes, you tilt your head back and take a deep, long breath through your nose, drinking in the sensations all around you. The chill of the rain, beating against your face and armour. The whipping of the wind. The smell of moisture and ozone. The feel of the water rolling down your head, into your armour, and down off of the watertight full-body suit you wore underneath it all. You drank it all in, loving every second of it. This, second only to causing mayhem, was what you loved so much about this job. You exhale through your mouth, slow and controlled, and reopen your eyes.
You could feel the assembling boarding team behind you more than you could hear them, their heavy footsteps reverberating through the floor. The distant lights of the enemy ship came closer and closer, brightening in intensity.
You smile. It’s almost time to boogie.
30.
The troops finish assembling behind you. They didn’t need another speech by this point. They only needed the order to attack.
20.
The speakerphone rings once. The grappling hook team has locked on. All they need now is the signal. You pick up the receiver.
“Stand by.”
10.
Silence reigns across the deck, save for the weather. You could see the enemy ship in decent detail now. Especially the massive plume of rainbow feathers on the ship’s balloon. That kind of fruity aesthetic belonged to Captain Celaeno, and her motley crew of other parrot looking... things. Being walking, talking reminders of a certain... subculture back on Earth was license aplenty for you to slap them around like piñatas. But Celie-chan here? Oh, you remember her in particular. Especially how you kicked her ass the first time around. ‘Course, back then, you weren’t a commander yet.
5.
Back then, you were making a name for yourself, busting out of Abyssinian jail and wreaking freelance havoc on those other, more feline variations of hideous, anthropomorphic things. But in one, singular bit of fairness to them, you might have actually given them a chance if it weren’t for them jailing you after that unfortunate interdimensional teleportation thing that dropped you into this world. As if that was your fault somehow!
4.
Then the Storm King rolled up to kick their asses and steal all their treasures too, and he liked your style so much that he hired you on the spot. God, you still remember nearly soloing the throne room. Easiest captain promotion of your life. And the most fun!
3.
Then there was that whole adventure with that Misfortune Malachite. And Celie here, oh boy, you remember her dickery after that Strife guy decided to stab the King in the back. Can’t really say you blame him, but it was still a stupid move on his part. Especially after he wouldn’t cut you in! It’s like he thought you wouldn’t rat him out after that! Oh well, you made commander for it all the same.
2.
A shame, really. You’d figure after blitzkrieging her ship with your boys the last time, she’d have been happy to have a job with a sub-minimum wage paycheck. It was pretty generous, all things considered! But hell, you’re happy either way. Whooping anthropomorphic ass is always a sublime pleasure for you.
And you were more than happy to teach her another lesson.
1.
“Fire.”
BOOM
The delicious blasting of cannon fire tears through the silence as the aft-mounted grappling hook sails through the air with the grace and the impact velocity of a meteorite, aimed squarely at the ass end of Celaeno’s barge. It crashes through the rear observation deck with the kind of meaty CRUNCH that only splintering wood could give you, digging deep into the ship’s colon for what you’d guesstimate was a good ten or fifteen feet. As the hook deploys and tugs back, it catches something inside that makes the ship’s engines grind and groan in protest until, after one final tug, they give out with a loud BANG, a small mushroom cloud of smoke billowing out of the hole for the effort.
“We got a bite, fellas. Reel ‘em in.”
The winches underfoot go to work, humming away as they dragged the incapacitated ship towards you. The enemy crew was scrambling all across the deck in a panic, stopped only by the call of their captain. You couldn’t see her yet, but you would pretty soon, one way or another. Hanging up the receiver again, you stand there and watch as your prey is drawn in, bit by bit.
Eventually, the ship’s thoroughly ruined booty bumps and grinds up against the aft of your own ship. But you hold off on dropping the forward gangplanks for the moment, instead hopping over the railing and walking up along the bowsprit. You reach the tip of the reinforced metal mast and look down at the top deck of their ship, where all of the pirates continue to scramble around like rats. One clap of your hand is all it takes to seize their attention. As they look up at you like a deer in headlights, you cast your arms wide with a big smile and begin your proclamation.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Now, we all know why I’m here, so I’ll get straight to the point. You can give me your complete and total surrender now, or me and my boys can beat it out of you. Which would you prefer?”
Now, that was a very generous offer if you do say so yourself. But apparently they don’t share your feelings on the matter, because a few of them start unsheathing their cutlasses and hollering back up at you, with the others following suit after their much ballsier peers.
You let out a big, exaggerated sigh.
“Fine. They’re your bones.”
With a snap of your finger, the two smaller gangplanks flanking the bowsprit shoot out of the hull and slam down onto the deck, the sharp metal points digging into the wood. Some of the more skittish birds are already beginning to regret not turning tail and running. Y’know, as if that would’ve mattered.
“Just remember, this is the future you chose. Sic ‘em, boys!”
Said boys let loose their battle cries, pouring across the gangplanks like a river of muscular whoop-ass. The few birds that don’t shit their britches and take off screaming soon discover that their tiny pissant cutlasses were hitting their armour plates with all the effectiveness of a wet noodle. Before long, the pirates are beaten down into submission above deck, and the rest of your boys vacate your ship and flood down into the depths to drag out the stragglers while the topside boys start tying their captives up against the masts.
Amazing work as always. Their Mexican feast today is gonna be well earned. And yet, something’s not right.
Where’s Celaeno in all of this?
You know her well enough to know that she’d be above deck with the rest of her own boys, fighting to the last against the invaders. Unless...
Oh.
O-ho-ho.
Unless she’s trying to be clever. And you know what, you think you know just what she’s trying to play at.
Turning 360 degrees, you walk back towards Grubber.
“Hey buddy,” you start, “Do me a solid and open up the cargo bay.”
Grubber’s been working with you long enough to know that he should never ask questions about your weird requests, even if he doesn’t understand them. Thus, with a confused nod, he pulls a lever nearby, the big double-doors you’d walked over to get to him lurching downwards into the floor before sliding open.
And then you leap down into the pit, landing at the bottom in a picture perfect superhero landing, complete with the dramatic head rise coming first before you stand up tall and proud.
Appearances are everything, kids.
“Celie-chan~,” you yodel into the darkness around you, “C’mon sugartits, I know you’re down here. Why don’tcha come on out and say hi?”
Utter silence greets you in response, but they can’t fool you. They snuck on board while your boys were boarding, and you’ve got a good idea of just how they did it, too.
Oh, there they are. They haven’t actually come out yet, but they were skulking around in the shadows. Needed a sec for your eyes to adjust, is all.
D’aww, look at them, circling around you with their swords out, looking for an angle to jump you. It’s so cute, you just wanna reach out and pinch their little cheeks! And break their cute button noses! Still, can’t quite see Celie in this mix just yet, but you know she’s gotta be here somewhere.
Ah, there she is!
She’s the only one to walk out of the shadows right in front of you, glaring at you with those raspberry eyes of hers. She still had the same pirate get-up from the last time you’d “talked” with her. Even the same sword!
“D’aww, there ‘ya are, baby!” you coo, arms extended. “Did’ja miss me?”
“Captain Anonymous,” she clicked, disdain and plenty of buried anger laced throughout her tone. “Why am I not surprised to see you here?”
“’Cause the A-Non’s like herpes, babycakes. You can get rid’a me all ‘ya want, but I just keep on comin’ back for more.”
“Classy. Well, you’ve got the disease part right, at least.”
“Damn skippy. Have to say though, real smart play, sneaking in through the chain of the hookshot. A for effort!”
She chooses to respond by unsheathing her sword instead of using her big girl words.
“Now,” you continue regardless, “What’s a nice place like you doing in a girl like this?”
“Oh, I’m about to teach a very sad little captain a long overdue lesson.”
The birds in the background get ready for a simul-pounce, but you were kinda expecting a move like that anyways.
“Not gonna solo me this time, babe?”
“No.”
“Wow, another smart move! That’s two-for-two so far! Ooh, are there gonna be whips and oil involved?”
“You know you’re not funny, right?” she growls, your annoying tone bearing fruit.
“And you don’t actually have tits. But you don’t hear me being rude about it, now do ya?”
Her composure cracks. She brings her sword up and gives it what you think is supposed to be a menacing swing. You mean, it just kinda looks like what a weeaboo thinks is a menacing display for the haters.
“Kick his tail, boys!”
And there it is.
A loud chorus of battle-squawks sound out as a large chunk of the bird-men jump right towards you, swords poised to strike.
Things slowed down for you long enough to get a crisp neck crack in before the massacre begins. By all rights, your boys needed to whoop ass more than you did. But like, if they were just gonna throw themselves at you and not expect to be taken to the cleaners, you weren’t exactly gonna say no to that, now were you?
Aww, Celie looks so confident. Like she really thinks that you’re in serious trouble and are about to get your face mashed into the dirt.
You’re looking forward to seeing her face afterwards.
The first move you make is to duck backwards and do a flip, their swords clanging together before your foot boots them up from underneath. Most of them had lost their grip from that move alone, their swords clattering to the ground as they struggle to regain their balance.
One bird-man tries to grab you from behind, but a well placed elbow to the beak stops that move dead in it’s tracks. Two more come at you from the sides, only to be given the same treatment by both fists. A particularly burly one swipes at you with his sword, but you just weave out of the way, smiling as he keeps swinging. Once. Then twice. Then the third time, your forearm comes up, and the sword ricochets off the armour plating, staggering the dumb fucker and allowing you to roundhouse kick him halfway across the room with a delicious, satisfying CRACK.
You turn slowly to face the other incoming, much less confident pirates, not even bothering to drop into a fighting stance. You take a few steps forward yourself, cracking your knuckles for good measure with a big, evil smile plastered across your face.
And from there, it devolves into a world-class ass whooping. Birdman after birdman gets laid the fuck out at your feet. Some go down to fists, some to elbow strikes, some to kicks. One even went down to a good old fashioned headbutt, bending like Beckham as he crumpled to the floor. Their basic-ass swords were no match for the plated armour you wore, fully covering all of your important bits and yet light and well-designed enough for you to stick and move like you were in a kung-fu flick.
And then, as the last pirate goes down to an uppercut, you hold the pose on purpose and slowly turn to face a very shocked, pale-faced, and slightly shivering Celaeno, her efforts divided evenly between trying to process what she’d seen and trying to pick her jaw up off the floor.
The only thing that stirs her is when she jumps damn near out of her skin after she hears Grubber and a few of your boys start to cheer from up top.
“Woo-hoo! Yeah! That’s what you get! You don’t mess with the ABCs!”
You smile, paying his comments no mind as you begin the traditional menacing slow-walk towards Celaeno, her focus screaming right back towards you as her pupils shrink to pinpricks.
“Mmm-mmm, Celie, Celie, Celie,” you tut, wagging your finger. “What was that? It’s like you cats didn’t even practice before trying this dumb stunt! In fact, did you even practice at all since the last time we had this lil’ talk?”
She composes herself just enough to stay in motion and keep her distance, and the two of you begin to circle slowly around one another in the light of the cargo bay. More and more cheering storm beasts gather around the ledge overhead, stomping and chanting their best approximation of “Anon”.
Poor Celie wasn’t used to the negative reinforcement. Look at her, distracted by the chants like that! Hey, wonder if that’ll mean she’s more... Amenable to reason now?
“Aight girl, listen.”
She snaps right to attention, trying her best to look tough.
Operative word being “try”.
“Nobody’s gonna judge you if you just lay down your weapon now. It’s not too late for my mercy!”
You give your neck and knuckles another good crack-a-lackin’.
“But I mean, if you wanna go for round 2, I’m down.”
Eyup, she’s gonna try to be a hero in the face of impossible odds. Don’t know if it was the tone you used or what, but either way, she’s charging at you with that sword of hers.
Eh, you guess this has gone on long enough, anyways.
Whoosh
Ting
THWACK
Celaeno sails straight up past the cargo door, above deck, and through the air for a few moments, crumpling onto the floor a few feet away while her sword clatters off to the side. Drinking in your crowd’s cheers, you give a few bows before rubbing your trusty uppercutting hand for a job well done. Then you leap straight up and out of the cargo bay, following the same trajectory she did. Stars and tweety birds danced around her head for a beat before your hand came down and grabbed her by the neck of her coat, lifting her back up to eye level.
“You made three mistakes,” you hum, cheery as ever. “First, you tried this stunt. Second, you came awful light. I mean, only sixteen people for little ol’ me? That’s just fucking insulting. But the worst mistake ‘ya made, by a nautical mile?”
She barely has the energy left to gasp as your face dives in nice and close.
“It’s Commander Anonymous now, sweetpea,” you whisper.
A bleary-eyed groan is all you get in response.
“Ah well,” you shrug, drawing your head back. “Better luck, ah... Never, huh?”
And with that, she goes limp in your grasp, out like a light. Draping her body over your shoulder, you turn back towards your captive audience, still busy cheering their little black hearts out.
“Pack ‘em like kippers, boys. We’ve got some tacos to claim!”
This was one of those rare occasions where everyone clapped.