bringmethatnpc | (no subject)

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Everything in Panama City had gone mostly according to plan, a rare happenstance for the pirates in this motley crew, and the more superstitious among them spent the first few days on board their new vessel debating whether this meant good luck or bad, fair wind or foul.

The Spanish ship they'd stolen isn't large or particularly pleasing to the eye, being in need of some new paint and wood maintenance, but it's seaworthy and swift before the wind, and most importantly, well-stocked for a long voyage.

And a long journey to Singapore it will be.

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Mal hasn't gotten used to the hammocks -- cloths on the ground almost feel more like a bunk on Serenity than the maritime compromise between sound sleep and a rolling ship. That leaves Mal dozing while propped up in a corner, awakened when Gibbs passes.

"Wei," he offers to the man, even if he's not really looking for him.

"Good evening, Captain." Gibbs moves closer, and gets out a hip flask he took charge of when they took this ship.

"Good evening yourself," Mal returns not unkindly. "What was that you were singin'?"

"A song about the demise of Captain William Kidd. Have y' heard of him?" He knows that Mal is from far away, and knows not to assume much.

"Not a jot, sorry."

He's standing now, since conversation continued down below might stir some of the other people trying to sleep.

"Didn't think so, seein' as Jack told me you aren't from anywhere near the Caribbean." Though he's not sure where Mal is actually from. "Kidd was a pirate. Or a privateer. Or a patriot. It depends on who you ask, and when. But he was hanged as a pirate, and he did his share of raids before it all came crashing down on him."

"Can't help but notice the similarities to some folk we share acquaintances with, Mr. Gibbs."

Jack Sparrow. Barbossa. Half the people on this ship, probably.

"I've thought that from time to time, yes. Though I suspect that Jack would resist any label but 'pirate'." Gibbs gets a sad smile at the thought of the currently dead captain.

"And what of yourself. Jack told me a bit of you, but he wasn't quite clear on whether you're a pirate of the air instead of the seas."

"I captain a space-ship -- technically sailin' through the black between planets rather than actual air and atmo -- and I'll take any job I can get, legal or otherwise.

"Rather a bit faster than wind and sails, though there's somethin' to be said for the movement of things around here -- grav-systems on space-ships don't leave much room for solar waves or some such."

Gibbs stares blankly. The parts he understands, he doesn't rightly believe. But he knows that since half of what Jack says is true, Reynolds is probably also telling the truth about space travel.

"There's nothing like a sailing ship. And from what I'm told, there'll be a day when machines do all the work and men like me will be a thing of the past."

"There's always a place for men what need to live under their own rules," Mal corrects rather vehemently.

Backing off, "It just gets a little harder to find after awhile."

Gibbs takes no offense at Mal's determined defense of their way of life. "Seems that you've met a few who've tried to make you something you don't wish to be, Captain. But seein' what we've been through, seein' what I've been through since I left the navy, I can say that it's never been easy.

"Or else we wouldn't be on this trip to the edge of the world, would we?"

Somewhere in the recesses of the maze of hammocks, Dora is trying to ignore her nausea enough to get some sleep.

"I suppose not," Mal admits. "Mo shu bars, pirates -- " Vague handwave. " -- Earth-that-Was? Lil' surprising."

"I've learned by now that there's little in the Bar that can be surprising. Or, for that matter, in the world. Time was, I didn't truly believe in witches or ghosts or demons or magic. Now it's impossible not to. So it's a short leap to believe in magic bars and men from the future and what have you." Gibbs takes a sip from his flask. "Care for some, Captain?"

"Sure. Xiexie."

Mal takes a decent swig, smiling appreciatively.

"What's that?"

"You're friends with Captain Jack Sparrow and you've never had rum? Jack was losing his touch." Gibbs smiles, but is genuinely surprised.

"No, I've had rum. Maybe it's the taste from the flask -- differently spiced, possibly."

"Ah." That's a relief. Jack not sharing the rum is as unlikely as Miss Swann drinking it. "It's from Tortuga...well, strictly speaking, it's from Boston in the colonies to the north, but I'm not particular."

"Shiny -- I might have to procure myself some."

Beat. "After all this."

"Assumin' that Barbossa doesn't get us all killed." That thought is accompanied by a deeper swig.

"Or that Tia."

"Your friend Tonks...she is your friend, right?...she's a witch too, if I'm understanding things right. Does she have any sense of Tia Dalma beyond what we do?" He's sure no one trusts Tia, but he still trusts her more than he does Barbossa.

"...Honestly? I ain't got a clue; never thought to ask." Wry bit of a smirk. "No one ever credited me with much forethought now and again.

"And yes, she's a witch in a far different sense o' the word than whatsoever I grew up with."

"Then you must be a pirate after all. We on the whole have never been particularly known for our planning skills." Excepting men like Barbossa and legends like Henry Morgan, who are rarities.

"How do you mean? There's no witchcraft in the future?"

"Not really -- I know there's magic; Dora's actually a far-gone relative o' my pilot back home. Witchcraft is more something backwater moon villages accuse each other of so's to keep feuds going."

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