Chapter 10
Outside the window to your left are the blankets of clouds. The warm, golden rays of the morning sun bring a smile to your face as you eat. Your eyes dance over the other shipboard crew, flitting after the intermittent glances in your direction and meeting them, only for their fleeting gazes to fall away as they turn to whisper to the other occupants. Slightly unnerved by their gazes, you wolfishly gormandize the remainder of your meal and stand unceremoniously, making your way to the kitchen to dispose of your tray, hastening to the door to forfend the stares boring into your back.
The upper deck is where you spend most of your free time. The clear space and open air allow you ample room to climb and run. Occasionally the shooting range catches your fancy, but the guns have been more difficult to handle following your transformation, so you avoid using them for the moment. Instead, you focus on more quotidian matters as you stroll up and out onto the planks, pondering what to do when you dock. You climb the railing, hooking your feet between the cars to stabilize yourself as you gaze unto the horizon. The contentedly-upturned corners of your mouth harden as you purse your lips, your mind drifting to more pressing concerns. You have no money to your name, and your lack of resources makes even the mere cost of a square meal loom dauntingly over you. You’d prefer to ration the sustenance pills you have for dire situations, having used more than you’d hoped as you’d escorted the ponies to the ship.
You’d surely need forms of identification, were you to run into any trouble with the law. You’re currently an illegal immigrant, and you have limited assets to defend yourself should the need arise. Being underange only further complicates your predicament. There would be no convincing the authorities otherwise; the ship’s doctor has your medical records on file. As far as you’re aware, you are the only one of your kind in the whole of Equestria. It’s entirely possible that you don’t have the right to a trial at all. You shudder, the thought alone sending shivers down your spine. Even if you were fairly tried and pronounced innocent, what would happen to you? Would you be put into a foster home? Would you be studied, forced yet again into a lab for the ponies to learn the workings of your species, inside and out? With your weaker physique, the fighting style you’d employed in the past would be of little use to you until you’d trained; regained, at the very least, some semblance of the muscle mass you’d had before your transformation.
Caressing the gold and chrome plate of the desert eagle in your lap, you pull back on the slide, discharging a bullet onto the deck, and unhook your feet from the guardrail, and swing your legs over the railing, landing on the deck with a satisfying clomp of your boots.
You crouch down, and lean over to grab your shell, pressing your fingers to the cold casing before straightening up and leaning back against the railing as you leisurely release the magazine from its well, taking a moment to admire the allowance of the gun’s sleek, well-maintained frame for the smooth ejection of the clip into your hand, and reload the ejected round, slamming the loaded mag back home and raising your head for a final parting glance to the open sky. Dropping the weapon back into its holster, you turn about, breaking into a brisk walk back to the complex below. As you stride through the hallways, making a beeline for the seamstresses’ cabin, you admire the beauty of the ship, allowing your eyes to wander aimlessly, taking in all you can at your pace and calling an elevator, hearing an immediate ding of its bell and peering in to find it blessedly empty. You exhale deeply, struck with a pang of relief that there would be no tense silences or scrutiny from fellow crew members, and punch the number for her floor, standing back and waiting patiently as the door hisses shut. You stare idly at the brushed metal as you descend.
As you make your way out of the elevator and down the corridor, you feel the air warming with your travel deeper into the belly of the large vessel. If you remember correctly the ship would be docking in a few days, that would give you a chance to once again see beyond its hull. Though the ship is beautiful and quite the marvel to explore, you appreciate the feeling of the ground beneath your feet, the grass between your toes; the texture of the rough bark of the trees that grace the land. Lost in your imagination, you nearly walk right into the tail end of a tall griffon, their plumage upwards of seven feet above the floor at its peak. You move to circle around him when you feel a talon gently grip your shoulder.
“Hey, kid. You must be that new huma-whatsit I've been hearing all about for the past couple weeks. Honestly with how menacing that Flash Sentry said you were I’d’ve thought you’d cut a more intimidating figure,” he said, the resonant baritone of his voice demanding my attention as he released his grip, allowing me to face him.
“I seem to be getting that a lot lately,” I replied, allowing my gaze to rove intently over the hybrid, taking in his form. “Though I can't say I didn't expect it. Besides, I'm leaving once we dock. I'm just on to get away from that frigid desert.”
I turn to begin walking again, somewhat uncomfortable around the menacing gryphon. He merely grunts in acknowledgment and continues walking back the way you came. Rounding the last bend, you slow as you approach the door, the numbered plaque glaring down at you from above the knocker as you bring your hand up, delivering three swift knocks on the door, taking a step back to allow the room’s occupants to see you through the peephole. You wait patiently, clasping your hands behind your back and placing a warm smile on your face as you wait for Mrs. Gossamers. After about two minutes of waiting, you knock once more, growing somewhat unnerved by the lack of a response. You sigh, tiring of waiting, and opt instead to leave a note on the door. Reaching into your left pocket, you deftly withdraw a small notepad you’d nabbed from the back pocket of a sleeping pony. The notebook’s lines had been blank, and at the time you’d needed it to keep track of the locations of bolts that you were replacing on outer hull of the airship, the old ones having been either rusted or charred from the frequent lightning storms. You reach into your pocket once again and grab the pen you’d snagged from the same mare. It used to hold her hair in a modest bun, and now found its way into your grubby mitts as you scrawled your message onto a blank page, requesting that Gossamers contact you as able.
Pulling your phone from your pocket, you wake up your display, the screen greeting you with the time. 3:23pm, it reads, the bright numbers glaring coldly up at you from the display. You start your assigned position as the kitchen’s food preparatory assistant today at four o’clock sharp, though they recommended that you get there five to ten minutes early so you would have time to wash your hands and prepare your station for the undoubtedly busy evening. The kitchen itself was on the third floor, many levels above. You have to leave now if you’re to make it to the kitchen in time to open your station. You turn to make your way to the door at the end of the long hallway. Displayed above is a bipedal silhouette with pointed ears climbing a set of stairs. You throw open the door, taking the steps two at a time as you bound up to the third floor. The door whines on its hinges as you thrust it open and speed-walk down the corridor to the dining hall, pushing into the stuffy kitchen through a side door. The cool air of the corridor is immediately replaced with the oppressive heat radiating of the ovens and stoves gusting against you. The clangor of pots, pans, and cups greets your ears as you weave your way lithely over to the sink and wash your hands.
As you scrub, you close your eyes, reflecting on the past couple weeks. You've spent most of the trip enclosed in your cabin, without the patience or wherewithal to deal with the xenophobic ponies and overaggressive griffons. You even denied entrance to Daring, the only one who had been nice to you other than Sir Tact. You were remiss to reject her advances, but you had needed the time to mourn, not for yourself and your displacement, but for how you had left your sisters without so much as a goodbye. You would certainly miss the woman your elder sister had grown to be, and her guidance. Her guidance had you sane through the most hectic and demanding of ordeals, the combined forces of her level head and the positive energy of your younger sister, the one who remained bright and vibrant, determined to be in your life despite the age gap of eleven years.
You had missed your eldest sister’s high school graduation during your time being experimented on, and grown distant as time passed. When you had met your younger sister, you were not the best brother, initially bitter that your father had a child with another woman, but came to accept her, realizing in time how foolish and stubborn you had acted.
As if someone had put the world on mute, the boisterous kitchen had quieted. You realize suddenly that the water washing over hands from the faucet had gone completely still. There came a soft voice.
“Reminiscing on the past, are we?” it inquired. It’s light, musical sound resonated in your eardrums. You smile to yourself as you dry off your hands, your eyes roving the scene before you. It's as if you're in a 3-D image, time seeming to have frozen, leaving only you untouched by the effects of what you could only assume to be a spell. You reach over to dry your hands with the towel beside you briefly in a flurry of motion, and turn to walk to your station.
“I've missed you, but you'd know that wouldn't you? Being in my head and all. Where were you?” you asked, selecting a knife from the knife block. You bring it closer, inspecting it, you run your finger along the blade, somewhat disappointed in its poor condition. Placing the knife in your left hand you grasp the worn plastic handle of the cylindrical knife sharpener. Walking over to a counter, you set the knife down, the sharpener following suit. You make your way to the back room weaving through the frozen bodies of your peers.
“Why did you freeze them like this...?” you query bemusedly, hefting the large bag of potatoes onto your back, hands firmly grasping where the top ends meet, tied together with a thick ziptie to ensure the package stayed secure during the voyage. Schlepping the potatoes over to the counter you discard them at your feet and begin on acuminating the blades.
Several minutes pass as you sharpen the blades, your mind wandering as you performed the menial task. You hardly noticed your surroundings till a talon gripped your shoulder, letting you know abruptly that Cordelia had returned time to a normal pace, and irking you somewhat. She’d ducked your questions as you focused on the task at hand. The claw on your left shoulder jerked you from the absentmindedness of performing the repetitive task.
“Hey, Gary, when did you clock in?” Standing off your shoulder is a rather heavy-set gryphon, his Greek accent leaving a nice ring in your ears as he leans over your shoulder and looks down at the potato you were peeling.
“Clocked in at 3:55, just like I'm supposed to, sir. How was the day shift?” you respond promptly, your gaze returning to your work as you finish emptying the bag. You take your buckets of potatoes and move them to the end of the counter and begin using the industrial French fry cutter, the blades crunching pleasantly as they scrape past the tubers’ inner flesh, the slices falling into the gradually filling bucket below every pump of the lever.
“It's going well, though we were absolutely swamped the other day, and boy I wish I had hired you sooner. You're a hell of a lot faster than the lad who worked here last. Ended up getting off at the last port up in Frost Brook, it’s up North a ways from where we picked up you and Daring,” he says, his talons a whirlwind of practiced motion as he scales a tray of haddock, his the sharp tips of his claws stripping its hide with ease as he picks away at the workload for the day.
The work goes by without too much hassle. You find yourself being shoved into the back to dice more potatoes for the stew more than you would've liked, your hand quickly starting to cramp from the constant monotony of slicing potato skins. Your gaze wanders to the clock, its arms indicating 7:24. Dinner was scheduled to begin at 7:30 pm, leaving you all of six minutes to mentally steel yourself for the rush of orders you were sure to receive throughout the night. The kitchen made a crab stew, a clam chowder, and an oat substitute for the herbivores. As you finish the last batch of potatoes, you glance once more at the clock, your face slackening at the time it displayed. Thinking about the delicious stew was decidedly unhelpful as you prepped yourself for rush-hour.
-----
Three hours. Three hours of running around like a decapitated chicken into the back to do everything from grabbing utensils to sous-cheffing a side dish so the order could get out in a timely manner. The kind old griffon had offered to let you leave about an hour ago, but you refused, already hearing your name being shouted over the bustle of the kitchen to grab a stuffed mushroom with extra feta cheese and marinara sauce. But now you were done, finally able to take a calming breath as you continue on the arc of your the sweeping, lackadaisical path as you drag your mop across the floor, leaving small patches of suds that you would eventually have to mop over a second time when you went to collect all the leftover soap and suds, leaving a trail of slippery residue in your wake. Making quick work of the messy tiles, you stow the mop and make your way over to a sheet of paper that hanging from a tack on a corkboard, a schedule displaying the times you are to work for the upcoming week. Your brow twitches, a glib smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth as you see that you have every other day off: By horse law, at your age, you can't work more than three days a week.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~A Week Later~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As you walk down the corridor you marvel once again at your surroundings. The ship's expert craftsmanship, taking in all you can as you traverse the halls to topside. Deciding to have a bit of fun, you open a porthole, wrenching open its latch and removing your shirt, grasping its sill and hauling yourself up to hang out over the flank of the hull. Unfurling your wings takes more effort than you had anticipated, and you grunt, your brow knitting as you contemplate crawling back inside with the exertion. Stubborn as you are, you give them a few test flaps, loosening up the muscles as you prepare to ride the updraft, the frigid air slapping against you as you let go, gliding alongside the ship. You hurriedly ball up your tee, stuffing it into your pocket and spreading your out wide arms as you take in the morning air, your jaw tightening as the frigid air of the upper atmosphere saps your body heat, relaxing shivers firing up your spine as you admire the light frost that had built up along the outside of the ship.
Catching a thermal you soar upward to the poop deck, the air passing pleasantly through your wings as you reach the railing. You vault the handrail with a final firm flap of your wings, landing gracefully on the wooden deck and tucking into a small roll to dissipate the gathered energy, catching the impact over your shoulders and allowing your momentum to carry you back to your feet. As you straighten up, you feel the pinch of sharp nails grasping your ear, tugging you till you met face to muzzle of a very irked mare… which just so happens to be the Captain… who just so happens to have a particular rule of flying around outside the hull before a certain hour. Though it was still before dawn, you’d figured you had time to have a little fun before everyone woke up. Turns out you were wrong, oh so very wrong. Your face goes slightly slack, eyes widening in fear and bewilderment, and your breath catches as you speak softly under your breath. “The Captain…” You breathe, the Captain’s well-trained ears twitching to pick up the utterance.
“...Yes, the Captain. The same Captain who gave you a rulebook to study, which contained certain explicit rules about aviant exercises before 9am. And what time is it currently, Gary?” Looking at you expectantly behind her glare as you take a quick glance at your watch.
“If my watch is correct then the time would be 5:47 ma’am,” You say evenly, looking right back at her.
“Which would be violating one of the rules, which I’m sure if you read the book that you know the punishment?” She asks, giving you a sly smile.
“Indeed I do ma’am, swabbing the poop deck till you can see your own reflection.” You say, the pit of your stomach dropping with dread as you remember that this was one of your days to work as well. “‘Shit detail! God dammit, I shouldn’t have risked it...”’ Now it’d all be fine and dandy if you were on a regular ship, but the airship was no schooner, comfortably accommodating the number of occupants it did. Its bulk made for a whole lot of swabbing for you to get done in time for work, although you may be getting a new assignment as an errand boy, as one of the Sous Chef’s sons was now old enough to work, which you were more than fine with. You like to cook, but it wasn't exactly what you want to do all day everyday. But at least you now have some basic skills for Equestrian cuisine.
Three excruciatingly long hours later and you are finished swabbing the poop deck, leaving you with a whole forty-five minutes to get to work on time. If you run you might be able to get a quick five minute shower and still make it to your station, which reminds you of yet another thing you will need when you get back on land: A phone. Sure, you have your old one, but they’ve never heard of the company Kyocera, let alone U.S. Cellular. So even if you could charge it with Equestria’s similar outlets, rendering the phone near useless considering you couldn’t use it as it was intended. Its cheap camera suffices to document simple images, which you exploited as you learned the basics of flight as you flew parallel to the ship.
Following a brief rinse, you burst out the bathroom door, looking in the mirror and freshening up hurriedly, tugging gently at your hair and tossing on a fresh shirt before you race out the door and sprint down the hall. You make it to the elevator and wait patiently as you watch the backlit arrow tick down to your floor, stepping aside as a few ponies and a gryphon exit. You watch impatiently as the numbers tick by, uneasily glancing at the time displayed on your phone, which gives you only six minutes to be at your station. Hearing the elevator chime, you wait till the doors open enough for you to get through before bolting out, nearly knocking a young filly over, ignoring her cry of alarm and opting to leap over her as you continue your race. Throwing the door open, you quickly punch in and grab an apron, tossing it haphazardly over your shoulders and rapidly washing your hands and face, drying them as you walk into the food prep room, quickly arranging your workspace on the counter.
Work goes as expected. Not much changes when you make the same food everyday, but you are relieved to be free once more. As you wander the halls, you see a group of teenagers walking your way. You recognize none of them. You’d rather not get involved with anyone at the moment, so you keep your eyes front and try to pass them by. No such luck. It would seem your notoriety precedes you as one of them attempts to grab your attention.
“Hey guys look, it’s the new guy from the mountains. Hey dude, want to come hang out with us?” A fairly tall colt addresses you, standing around six foot. He wears an orange t-shirt over his rust colored fur with drab, brown cargo pants. He had a shaggy, sandy brown mane, darker shocks of brown evenly spaced in small streaks, and his forelock sweeps strikingly bright, amber eyes. He’s fairly slim for his height, and rather lanky.
“I’m pretty tired from work and it’s nearly eight, so no, not really.” You respond. It’s not completely untruthful. You are pretty tired from cleaning out the grills and replacing the oil, which can take up to three hours depending on how well they were cleaned the week before, but you took two weeks in a row, so you were able to get them done in an hour, for which you mentally pat yourself on the back as you listen absently to what he is saying. Something along the lines of a movie night at his place. As he drones on about the movie they’re going to be watching, your ears perk up as you notice a shorter filly with a dark purple mane that goes till the small of her back. Her bangs brush over the arch of her left eyebrow, framing her magenta eyes. Her neon green fur contrasts starkly with her mane and eyes, her dark blue knee length dress emitting an abnormal amount of colour to your sense. You disregard that as you look over to her and ask politely, “Can you repeat that, please?”
“We’ll also be bringing snacks with us, we bought a few candies in Griffinland that we wanted to try while we watch the movies that Rust Bucket got while we were there.” You have yet to eat and though the promise of candy feels too good to refuse, you would rather get some real food in your system before you load up on junk.
“What room will you be watching the movie in? I have to get some real food in my system before I tackle on any junk food. I can meet you there in about ten minutes or so.”
Perking up, Rust says, “We’ll be watching in room twenty-one G, can’t wait to see you there.” The group walks off as you continue on your way to the back of the ship. The back of the ship is where most of the Griffins stay. You worked out a deal with a butcher there that owns a small deli that she runs from a separate cabin, the cabin having a three foot tall by seven foot tall opening that has metal shutters that slide down when they close. But you made a deal with her that if you dispose of her bones that she will have a sandwich made of the day's leftover meat waiting for you. All you had to do was knock.
After eating your roast beef sandwich on rye and disposing of the bones in the ship's communal void trash dump you wash your hands in a spare bathrooms sink and make your way to room twenty-one G, and for the first time since you’ve been here, genuinely smile as you think to yourself, “‘Maybe it’s not going to be so bad here.”’
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*reads the last sentence* Oh, someone's getting shanked next chapter.
7841830
*le gasp* How did you know!?
7855961
Indeed, that's why I haven't been having him use them since the transformation. He would be much too weak to use them. But before then he was a genetically enhanced soldier. So Im using creative freedom to give him those Hulk Hogan arms brother.
Not bad, not bad at all. Though I'm curious on the update schedule for this story
8015462
Sorry about that, I have been going through some...trying times. I'm going to pick myself up before I start writing again. Though I do have a lot planned out on paper. Problem with that, it's on paper. I probably have about 8,000 words written on paper but I just haven't had the drive nor the inspiration to continue the story thus far. Plus I kind-of want to rewrite the first few chapters so the main character doesn't seem so edgy. As the initial idea was made with an edgy friend who thought the trench coat that used to be the story pic was "Badass". Though now I just see it as impractical and kind-of retarded looking. Nothing that a military man would use. So yeah, I know it's just pathetic excuses but hey, I've got to get my life together before I jump to hobbies. Though I should have things together a bit better around August. Though I'll try to post before then. Sorry
blooodddyyyyyy brriiileant
lookin forward to more chapters