Maverick

He wakes to find he's a stowaway on a strange otherworldly-ship. With no memory of his past, he can't object when the Captain names him "Maverick," and this is his life now.

It was the smell which woke him first. Something mineral about it, like rainwater, or salt. He wouldn’t open his eyes yet. He needed more rest.

His brain throbbed. The back of his neck was sore, shoulders hunched as his chin rested on his chest. Humidity stuck his clothes to his skin, and his head felt enshrouded. The cold tensed his muscles so they relentlessly ached and shook.

Accepting he wouldn’t fall back to sleep in such conditions, he opened his eyes, feeling the loose pressure of scratchy, burlap cloth over his eyelids, nose, lips and chin. While he couldn’t tell where he was, he saw just enough through the obstruction to distinguish silver moonlight over a nighttime backdrop. That was it. He felt some turbulence, but couldn’t tell if he was in a plane or a truck, or whatever else. He doubted he was on stationary ground.

When he lifted his hands to warm his shoulders, he learned his wrists were bound together in front of him. It began to dawn on him that he wasn’t in so great of a situation, though somehow he felt as if something like this had happened before�"his overall reaction, he realized, was, F**k, this again.

 He couldn’t recall how he could’ve ended up this way. The last thing he remembered before going to sleep was… Well, there was a whisper of a memory, but…

His brow furrowed. He couldn’t remember anything. Not what happened the day before, or anything of his past. Not his name, family, race, or date of birth. From what he could tell, he was grown enough to be an adult, but helpless enough to be a child. So a teenager, maybe. He figured a real adult would’ve had some clue of what to do in this situation.

But then, he was tired. Too mentally exhausted to feel any fear for anything that could follow. He remembered some common knowledge of what it was like to have depression. Feelings of pessimism, helplessness, emptiness. He had those. No average teenager did, he thought�"not to this extent. So he was a young adult. Unless he was wrong.

Muffled shouting from the room above, maybe thirty people altogether. Some laughed, all were excited. Some chanted, growing louder as more voices joined, “Bring�"him�"up! Bring�"him�"up!” Some stomped in emphasis for each word, and dust fell from the ceiling. 

The youth coughed, warming his face as his breath blew back at him. It didn’t smell any particular way. No hints there.  

“Bring him up!” an older man bellowed outside the chant. He laughed with the dryness of an old, creaking floorboard, and his crowd roared back their appreciation. 

Hinges screamed open just overhead, everything became louder and the youth jumped. While he couldn’t stand, he scrambled back on his legs and knees, immediately meeting a wall. Shadows of men dropped from the ceiling, landing with a thud which shook the floor. As the youth sensed the first man approach, he swung out his forearms like a baseball bat. 

“Ahh�"f**k!” he screamed�"the youth, not the man. Somehow he felt the pain in his chest. While he did manage to collide with the man’s limb, all it hurt were his own already-injured fingers, which now ached and throbbed like a m**********r. He wished he had known his hand was wounded. Now its brace was knocked out of position, newly tethered to him in a way which dug its rigid corner into his wrist.  

The man laughed, “Did you see that, Aenan?”

The guy he assumed was Aenan laughed back as he approached. His voice was slightly higher and more nasal than the others’, which gave the youth the impression he was smaller than them, too. 

“‘Ehhh �" fook’ he says!” Aenan grabbed his arm from beneath his shoulder. The man might’ve sounded small, but he felt about the same height as himself. 

The first man grabbed the youth’s free shoulder, and together he and Aenan lifted him so his toes dragged, skimming over what felt like strands of hay and rocks of crumbling dirt.

He could’ve fought them. He had the drive, but it would’ve been pointless. He was outnumbered and disadvantaged in every sense of the word.

He felt nothing beneath his toes as he was lifted higher, handed off to whoever was above them. He immediately felt the difference when he made it through a threshold and into the new space, cold air smacking his chest. He heard what sounded like the cranking of gears, and the billowing of several large sheets in the wind. 

Before his legs had made it completely through the opening, the other men pulled him forward, bashing his knees against the frame. He cried out, though the guys who noticed only guffawed in response. He was glad he wore sweatpants, which acted as a protective barrier when they dragged his knees across the floor. 

He realized maybe he was more scared than he thought he was. While his head didn’t feel overwhelmed, he heard his own staggered panting and incessantly felt his hot breath against his face.

His only consolation was that he wasn’t dead yet. If they wanted him dead, they must have had several previous chances. Although, maybe he didn’t care if he died. If he couldn’t remember anything, he didn’t have any attachments.  

They dragged him several feet before releasing him. It might’ve been that they intended for him to sit on his knees, but he wasn’t in a stable enough position when they let go. Instead, he leaned too far sideways and landed with his face flat with the floor. His cheek especially smarted and he wondered if this, too, had been previously injured.

“On your knees!” ordered the floorboard-man, much clearer now without the barrier between them.

The youth scrambled until his knees and elbows were beneath him, and with his forearms he pushed himself up. The crowd menacingly chuckled, and now he was kneeling.

“Remove the bag!” ordered the same man.

The youth felt sausage-fingers brush against his chin when someone behind him grabbed the opening of the burlap sack. The man tore it back, briefly catching against the youth’s nose before removing it completely. Now his nose burned.

He gasped in the fresh air. When he opened his eyes the first thing he saw was the night sky and sails. So he was on a ship, then.

The sails resembled green lizard skin, scaly and strangely veiny, and they moved on their own. The cracks between the scales glinted like gold in the moonlight, and he noticed a series of cogs and strings stemming from the masts. These were what controlled how they moved. The youth didn’t think this was normal, but then without any memory for reference, he wasn’t sure if this should’ve shocked him.  

"Look at me," growled the groaning floorboard-man.

The youth returned his head to its natural position, coming to see the crowd which encircled him. All had kept a distance of maybe five feet, save for the head-guy, just a step closer than the rest. He looked like he could’ve been thirty-something, but his hair was completely white. There was clockwork on his face. The metal matched to the color of his skin and was delicately detailed enough to camouflage as a natural growth. From beneath the hairline of the side of his face, it spiderwebbed around and wove itself into his replacement right eye. The metal used for his iris glinted red, whereas his true eye gleamed a piercing blue. His eyebrows protruded beyond his face, as did his mustache. He wore a trench coat and was dirty enough to be a 17th century pirate, but his captain’s hat was the modern white cap with a black visor, decorated with gold accents and a centered captain’s crest.

Scowling, the man tugged down on the visor. “In what world does a mariner appreciate the intrusion of a stowaway?”

Was that what he was? Memory or no, it confused him. He couldn’t imagine a world in which he would’ve done this to himself on purpose. 

As if to see if anyone else would help him, the youth let his gaze wander to the other members of the crew. They all seemed wildly different from each other. Men, women, ambiguous-genders, of races he recognized and of some he didn’t. He couldn’t fully take it all in before the man stepped closer, and he felt it unwise to look away.

“Well, are you a spy?” the captain demanded.

The youth’s tongue felt thick. Words fizzled out in his mind before he could form a sentence. Was this what it meant to be mute?

The blue-eyed cyclops rolled both his eyes and growled, "Come, boy, if you don't answer I can't tell if you’re lying. I'll assume the worst and it'll be the skysharks for you!” It was obvious with that last bit that he was performing for his audience.

The others hollered their excitement. 

Performance or not, it didn’t mean he spoke nonsense. Desperate, the youth cried out, "I�"I don't remember!" Then his eyebrows narrowed. His voice sounded funny compared to the others’. Rather, his accent. None of the others had it.

Cyclops stomped his foot twice and the crowd silenced. His mechanical red eye stared the youth down fiercely, and after a moment, the light turned green and he frowned. "Well, you’re not lying.” His voice was softer now. It wasn’t a performance anymore, so his inquiry took on a more sincere tone. “Do you remember anything?" His eye turned red again, and green when the teen shook his head. 

The captain wrinkled his nose. "Aenan! You hit him over the head a little too hard!”

When the familiar nasal voice laughed, the youth snapped his gaze to one of the men behind him. He wasn’t as short as he sounded, though there was a default smugness in his features that didn’t surprise him. He appeared in his late twenties, and his head was shaved completely bald. While he carried a good bit of extra weight, he had the muscle mass to back it up. At the moment he stood with his arms crossed over his chest, watching the commotion.

“Back to me!” the captain barked, so the youth returned his gaze forward. 

Now it seemed the captain didn’t know what to do. He frowned, stroking his chin as he pondered. 

“Hodds!” called a lady voice, and both the captain and the youth looked aside and found a fit middle-aged woman shoving her way to the frontline. While there were grunts of indignation, none of the crowd seemed too offended. “Captain,” she corrected herself once she had made it. 

“Miss Peg,” he greeted in turn.

Her hair was dark and matted, producing natural dreadlocks. While her skin was tan, her eyes were a striking mirror-like gray. They put him off balance when they caught his stare. Somehow they reminded him of someone. 

“A word?” she asked.

Hodds nodded for her to approach, so she strode ahead, one heel clacking louder than the other. When the youth lowered his gaze to her feet, he realized she only had one heel�"one biological leg, one peg leg. The joke clicked and he snickered. Her name was Peg and she had a peg leg.

He knew she noticed when she glanced at him then followed his gaze to her calf. Someone behind him must have noticed she noticed, so he punched the youth’s side and the youth grunted, clamping his mouth shut to stifle any further sound.

Peg murmured into Hodds’ ear, covering the sides of her mouth to prevent the eavesdropping of lip-readers.

Both of Hodds’ eyebrows rose. When he returned his gaze to the stowaway, he frowned and stroked his chin again, as if he didn’t know whether to cook him or sell him. 

“What did she tell you?” asked the teen.

Peg addressed Hodds, “If he doesn’t remember, he doesn’t need to kn�"”

“No, I need to know because I don’t remember.”

Suddenly Hodds strode forth, nostrils flared. Laughter and exclamations of, “Ohhhh damn!” and “Ohhhh snap!” erupted from the crew. None of this was comforting. A sharper voice murmured, “Should not have done that.”

Hodds’ hands reached out as he approached, and in an instant the youth was lifted by the neck. His body dangled and kicked beneath him, and without the use of his hands he couldn’t ease the grip. Pressure built in his ears and face, and his throat became sore. He writhed and kicked harder, but it was useless. His head felt full. 

“Listen closely, boy,” Hodds growled, “When the lady speaks, you let her finish. Are we clear?”

More pressure built as the boy tried to answer. He couldn’t get any air out. It took all he had, but he tightened his neck and quickly nodded.

“Better yet, you do not speak unless spoken to, understood?”

He could’ve groaned, but instead he squeezed his eyes shut and found it in him to nod again.

Now it seemed Hodds was distracted, frowning at his own grip. As if for a better view, he lifted the boy slightly higher. “So many scars,” he noted.

From her spot behind them, Peg nodded. “That’s what I was saying.”

Finally the grip withdrew and the youth found his face flat with the floor once again, knees smarting. He gasped, and the relief was instant. After several more heavy breaths he, for a second time, turned so his forearms were beneath him, pushed, and knelt. By the time he looked at Hodds again, the man frowned and stroked his beard once more. When he made up his mind, though the following words were still for the youth, he faced his crowd as if performing again.

“I will tell you what she told me,” he announced. If anyone spoke or joked amongst themselves before, they silently paid attention now. “Your name is Maverick, for all we care. You are an alcoholic. Suicidal. Reckless. Angry�"This much we know. For the past recent years, you fell prey to the charms of a woman, who made you her little b***h.”

“Go f**k yourself,” the youth grumbled, still waiting for a serious answer. He thought Hodds might’ve hurt him again for that, but instead the man frowned and gestured toward Peg as if to say, ‘I’m only the messenger.’

Peg jutted her jaw, and though she didn’t seem to agree with the wording, she nodded like what he said was true.

Hodds recommenced his speech. “Be that as it may, you have also killed. Possibly, that makes you a wanted man, but I’m not worried about that. A killer’s the type who does what it takes.” Now he turned back to the boy he called Maverick, waving an arm as if to present to him his crew. “I only accept company who can do just that.” Then he smiled, as if awaiting a response.

Maverick didn’t know what he was trying to say, so he didn't have an answer.

“Can you fight?” asked the captain.

The thought excited something in him, in much the same way as would the notion of seeing an old favorite movie. He imagined this was his subconscious telling him yes, so he nodded.

Hodds warmly grinned, though before he could say anything Peg cut in with, “He’s only human, captain.”

A subtle shift in his features transformed his grin to a grimace. Under his breath he murmured, “So?” though didn’t put much further effort into fighting it. He turned away and looked toward the sails, thinking. Then, back to the youth. “What about knives, can you slice?”

He wasn’t sure if he’d had this experience specifically, but nodded anyway.

Hodds’ grin gradually returned. “Yeah? And dice? Mince?”

Again he nodded, because sure, why not?

The captain laughed. “Excellent! Perfect for the kitchen crew!” 

A chuckle from the crowd.

Hodds stepped closer, grabbing a dagger from his hip and cutting away Maverick’s restraints. The rope fell away as Hodds helped him to his feet. “Welcome to the family,” he muttered, guiding him to the edge of the crowd. None had dispersed yet, so Maverick assumed there was more still to witness.

“Now bring up the woman,” called the captain.

Although Maverick couldn’t see him, he knew this was Aenan: “I think she’s dead, captain.”

“Even so.” Hodds waved an arm back toward the trapdoor. 

There wasn’t as much of a commotion to bring her up as there was for Maverick. Aenan and a couple others dropped themselves down, and hardly a word was exchanged between them as they came back up. Only one needed to go down in the first place, for only one had her over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold when he came back up.  

“Where should I put her?” he asked. 

Hodds frowned. “The floor for now.”

The man laid her down gently. She wore dark gray pajamas, possibly a size too big, blood down the front of her shirt. Her pale skin appeared silver in the moonlight, and once the wind blew aside her long, straight black hair, Maverick saw her eyes were open. These were the eyes he recognized in Peg�"mirror-like gray, but the shape was different. Smaller, narrow and enchantingly slanted. Somehow he felt better knowing she was there, though if she was dead it shouldn’t have made a difference.

“She came with a note,” announced the next person to emerge from the trapdoor�"a tall, skinny woman who was noticeably darker than Peg. It seemed she had tried to tame her hair beneath the tie of a faded red bandana, though many tight curls had escaped its hold. 

“What’s it say?” Hodds asked her.

She shook her head as she finished stepping out from the bottom floor. Now that Maverick saw her at her full height, he figured she had to have been about seven feet tall. “I think it’s from Universe.” 

A hand raised from the trapdoor and Aenan’s voice called, “I’m from Universe!”

The woman pushed the note into his grasp, and his hand retreated.

The bald man lifted himself up, sat with his legs over the threshold, held the note before him, cleared his throat and read, “I am conscious and I am valuable. Keep me comfortable, and I will aid you when you need me most. If you remove the wooden bullet from my heart, I will die. My life is in your hands.” He silenced, though stared at the note for a moment longer.

“Is that all?” inquired Hodds.

Aenan frowned. “Seems so.”

The giantess crossed her arms, chin down as she shook her head. “I don’t trust it.”

Aenan scoffed, “But look at her, she’s harmless.”

“She can’t move, yet she can lend aid? Either she’s lying, or she works with magic. I don’t trust it.”

Hodds stroked his chin again, thinking. “Peg?”

The aforementioned approached the paralyzed stowaway, kneeling at her side and holding a hand above her face, shielding her eyes from the moonlight. “She can see,” she deduced. She then turned and explained to Maverick, “It means I can read her.” She addressed the pale woman next. “Do you know the young man who arrived with you?”

Silence. Not even a sound from the crew. Just the billowing of sails. 

Peg smiled and peered back at the youth again. “She likes you.” 

He couldn’t help a small grin in turn. At least there was that. 

Peg returned her gaze to the girl. “Can we trust you?”

Again, silence.

“A strong moral compass on this one,” Peg said. “She wouldn’t hurt even the most despicable being.”

The tall woman raised an eyebrow. “Then how can she be of any help?”

Without a thought Maverick answered, “Defense.”

Peg nodded like she agreed, then slowly stood, turning back to Hodds. “She’s sad. That’s about all I can get from her while she’s like this, captain.”

He nodded back, still with his hand to his chin. “Right, then. She stays until further notice.” He raised his voice for the crew again. “You all heard the note! She’s conscious and requires comfort! Set her up in the TV room!”

“Aye!” came the staggered responses of the rest�"the result of half being on-point, and the others only remembering to reply after the calls of the first.   

The tall woman picked her up effortlessly, princess-style. Peg held out her arms as if to help whilst knowing it wasn’t necessary. Half the crew rushed ahead to what Maverick assumed was the TV room. 

“Did she come with a name?” Hodds called to Aenan across the commotion.

The bald man had risen to his feet by this point. He turned the note over in his hand, frowned then shook his head, “Nay, captain.”

He hardly had the words out before Hodds announced, “Her name is Aurora, now!”

“Aye!” answered the few who heard. 

Maverick took some steps to follow the crowd, but Hodds barred his way with the reach of his arm. “You’ll have time to see her later,” he said. “First, training. Aenan! Learn this boy the kitchen!” The captain shoved him forth. 

Maverick stumbled and wasn’t entirely sure what was happening before the bald man caught his shoulder. “So you dice and mince?”

He had no idea. “Sure.”

Aenan smiled like the youth had no idea what he was in for�"like he knew he was lying. “This way, then.” He nodded ahead and began the walk. 

Maverick followed, however distracted. The tall woman had already carried Aurora into her new room, and although the door was still open it was difficult to see anything past all the people inside. 

When Aenan led him to the lower deck and through a door, all the commotion was gone from his view, and all that was left to distract him were his thoughts. Although he knew it was hopeless, still he tried to remember who he was and why he was there, and what was his connection to the female stowaway. As far as he knew, he liked her back, but it could’ve just been because she was familiar, not because she was a friend. She could’ve been the female who made him her b***h, as Hodds put it. Somehow, though, he didn’t think this was the case.

It bothered him that he couldn’t remember anything. He didn’t feel like a newborn, as if he had experienced nothing before this. He felt like he should’ve remembered, like it was all so close to coming back to him, but the longer he went without figuring it out, the more likely it was all gone forever. 

“Forgive me,” Aenan said as he opened a door. He stepped aside for Maverick to continue through as he added, “I didn’t think I hit your head so hard. I didn’t mean to; you were already unconscious when we found you, so there wasn’t a need. Just, well. Clumsiness.”

Maverick felt the back of his head and winced. It was definitely bruised, though he couldn’t say if this was Aenan’s doing or that of a prior adversary. “I’ll take your word for it, I guess,” he replied. “I forgive you.”

Aenan toothlessly grinned and followed him inside, closing the door behind them.

The kitchen was efficiently laid out, making the most use of the cramped space. Old wood cabinets stretched from floor to ceiling, and everything was mounted on clearly visible gimbals, like a gyroscope. Maverick assumed this was so nothing spilled over every time the ship rocked, though he doubted they needed to be so noticeable.

“One of the better galleys I’ve seen,” the older man commented. “Nothing much, but better. More elbow room. Have you used a kitchen before, do you think?”

“I… I think so, actually.”

“Ah. Well, whatever the case, any slicing and dicing for today’s done. Now we clean.” 

Maverick was especially hoping he wouldn’t say that. He’d glimpsed the sink when he first stepped in, and it was piled with used dishes. There was no way he was about to go through any of this sober. 

“This isn’t a dry ship, is it?” he asked.

Aenan squinted. “Dry?” 

“Dry, like. Without alcohol, or�"”

“Ahh, say no more.” The chef pushed a hand in both of his own pockets, withdrawing a flask from one and a glass smoker’s pipe from the other. “Choose your vice.”

Maverick’s eyebrows raised. “S**t, alright.” He laughed. “Damn, does it have to be a choice?”

Aenan snickered. “Funny thing, I had a feeling you might say that. These are what we found in your pockets.” He placed both items on the counter for him, then delved back into his pocket and withdrew a small eighth baggy of weed, setting this on the counter as well. Crouching as he opened the cabinet beneath, he explained, “Your flask was already empty.” He closed the cabinet and came back up with a bottle of spiced rum.

It was like Christmas and his birthday all in one. The situation, present and future, might’ve been confusing and unreliable, but for Maverick there were now at least two familiar substances he could always count on to treat him well and stay the same. It was the closest he had to feeling at home.

He and Aenan drank and took turns hitting and packing the pipe as the other washed the dishes. By the time they were finished, neither could stand up straight nor keep their eyes open. Aenan retired himself to his quarters as Maverick finished the last of the dishes, and while the latter wasn’t entirely sure where he was supposed to go after that, this wasn’t a thought which crossed his mind.

He careened up the stairs, slamming into one of the bannisters before pushing himself the rest of the way up to the deck. His pipe and flask weren’t all he had to remind him of home, wherever that was. There was still that girl.

The deck was scarce of crew, and for a second it felt as if he was on board a ghost ship. The stars were at their brightest, so it was maybe three AM. He figured most the crew would’ve been asleep.

Gripping the walls for support, he stumbled to what he knew to be the TV room, falling into the door and knowing it would open under his weight. 

There was the pale woman, leaned back in a recliner and facing the small box television. Someone had changed her into a clean shirt, pale blue and knitted. If she saw him come in, or if she was even awake, he couldn’t tell. Her eyes were open regardless. 

“Hey, Auroror.” He grimaced. “Aurora.” He didn’t realize he was so wasted. He never wanted to be this sloppy around her, but it was too late now. 

Sighing like a horse in the hopes of feeling his face, he sat in the couch beside her, as close as the space would allow. “I know that’s not your real name. And whatever my real name was before, I guess it’s Maverick now.”

No response. He didn’t expect one.

After some deliberation, he took her hand. Her fingers were narrow, her nails short and uneven. The touch was ice cold. “I don’t know how close we were before this,” he began.
“I don’t know if you remember, or if you were even always paralyzed, but, um. Figured you might be a little freaked out. So… Hands. Comfort.” He squeezed her fingers for emphasis.

She only stared straight ahead. He followed her gaze to the TV, which played some kinda cop drama.

“I’ll read to you,” he decided. “Not tonight. I mean, when I’m not shitfaced, I’ll… There has to be a book somewhere on here; I’ll find it and I’ll read it to you. A chapter a night.” His eyelids only felt heavier, though still he fought to keep them open. “I want you to be comfortable,” he murmured. “Happy. Despite all this…whatever the f**k’s going on.”

Still holding her hand, he leaned back in his seat, sinking into the cushions. “Night, Aurora.”

The last he saw was the cop on TV taking off his sunglasses, marking the start of the show’s opening slate.

Author's Note

The first chapter of a later book. You'll recognize some characters from Forgive the Monster.

Reviews

[Lady]

You really should continue on with this one - very creative concept. I especially love the cyclops, and his ability to see through people and determine whether they're lying or not with his one mechanical eye. Awesome!
The flying ship is a nice touch as well.

I only noticed one error: End of paragraph 2,

"He gasped and fell with a harshthud." - separate thud from harsh.

Otherwise it was perfect! Beautiful work. Love the way you describe everything so vividly.

[Buck West]

nice creative touch of a cyclops as captain of a pirate ship. you need to expand this one as well/