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  The meat-thing requires repair. Again.

  ═══════════════════════════════════════════════

  (Bob)

  You will rise. The body waits. Change is coming.

  “Is that right?” Wherever he was, Ainmire’s voice did not echo. It existed. “Kinda thought that Lanson would do me in. Kid shot me?”

  (Bob)

  Once. Sufficient. The crew dispersed. Dismissed. Alone with him. Preferable.

  “Preferable for who, pal?”

  (Bob)

  For the meat-thing. For debts. Ones you do not yet know you owe.

  Ainmire tried to sigh. Nothing happened. “Right. Diplomacy. Something you could have said earlier before I made myself a nice, big target.”

  (Bob)

  Good. You remember. The meat-thing can learn.

  “He sure can. What about you? Think you can use that big ole' brain of yours to call me something else?”

  (Bob)

  What do you prefer? Corpse? Vessel? The name you carried before is… complicated.

  “Nah, it ain’t. Three syllables. Say it with me, now: Ainmire.”

  (Bob)

  This one did not mean… Very well. Ainmire the Meat-Thing.

  (Bob) has gained a new ability!

  It will now dehumanize you a little less. Maybe.

  (Bob)

  Time to rise, Ainmire the Meat-thing.

  The first thing Ainmire became aware of was a complete absence of pain. The hole in his head should have hurt. Should have been agony. Instead, there was simply nothing. The second thing was the cold from himself. It radiated outward from somewhere deep in his chest, spreading through skin and bone. He opened his eyes.

  Above him: the same planks of the same ship. Beside him: Lanson, seated on an upturned crate, watching with the expression of a man who was too exhausted to choose fear.

  “Three minutes.” Lanson nodded in approval. “Remarkable, sir.”

  Human

  Name: Lanson

  Occupation: Ship Captain

  Disposition: Intrigued but terrified.

  Ainmire sat up. More controlled than last time. He touched his forehead. No hole. No evidence at all.

  (Bob)

  Ainmire the Meat-Thing is welcome.

  He ignored the voice and looked at Lanson. Empty hands, no sign of cutlass or pistol. Just folded in his lap like a man waiting for his tea.

  “All alone with a fellow ready to bash some skulls in?” Ainmire asked. “Your crew?”

  “I sent them above deck. They are abundantly aware I can handle the situation.” His jaw clenched a little. “The boy who shot you—Lenny, sixteen years old—I hope you can forgive him. He’s currently crying in his quarters, convinced he’s killed a man. I’ve not had the chance yet to correct him.”

  If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

  “Best to let the little bastard wallow. Only get to enjoy that feeling once, eh?”

  “..Quite.” Lanson leaned forward. “Forgive me for being crass, good sir, but what are you?”

  Class Instinct: Protector?

  The captain stands alone between you and the crew. You have done this before. Stood where he stands.

  Ainmire looked at his tricorn. Still his, whatever that meant. And in his hand once more. He placed it on his head.

  Bonded Item: Equipped. Again.

  “That is a funny question to ask, Lanson,” he said. “I was gonna ask you the same thing. This ship. You don’t seem surprised by all this.” He gestured at himself. “Ya know, a dead thing walking and talking and trying to annoy you.”

  Lanson was silent, thinking. Perhaps choosing his words carefully. “I am no stranger to these waters, sir. Merchant, mercenary, or soldier—it matters not. We’ve all seen things in these waters. I’ve pulled bodies from the sea before. The men call them drifters. Mostly frozen solid, even in high summer. We say a prayer and return them to their graves once more.”

  “Anyone ever told you that you’re a real mood killer? That look you're givin' me says you’ve never sat down for a chat with one of them deaders.”

  “Never.”

  (Bob)

  The human is speaking the truth.

  Undead were common enough to have a name. Common enough that sailors knew to expect them on their trips. But ones that talk and think? That was new. That was strange.

  “They always did say I was special,” Ainmire said with a grin.

  “You’re… something, sir.” Lanson’s eyes hadn’t left his face. “No, the dead do not generally speak. We find they lack the ability to think at all. They certainly do not make jokes or accessorize.” He stood, hand still shaking and visible. “The men who pulled you out—they recognized you. Something of a folk hero back in the day. Until you were wanted for piracy, murder of a king’s officer, and treason against the crown. Executed years ago by drowning.”

  Ainmire processed what he was hearing. Broken memories, irregular pieces of shattered glass being forced back into place.

  (Bob)

  More truth. This captain knows things. Useful things. Ask him.

  Ainmire rubbed his face. It felt like touching someone else through a window. “What else do ya know?”

  “I know execution by drowning is quite uncommon for king’s justice. But about you? Rumours, stories. If stories are true, you were first mate to the captain of the Undesirable. Before they set it ablaze, of course.” Lanson was being careful. “You lot were different. Or so they say. Took goods but left the crews alive. Distributed the goods throughout ports and slums alike. Some might call this a code.”

  “Did I?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir.”

  Savvy success

  The fragments are coming together. The smell of burning canvas. A woman’s voice, screaming. Men, fighting and dying and burning. Your own voice, drowning as you begged for sanctuary from the depths. The rest is smoke.

  Something lurked within Ainmire’s chest. Memories pressing against heart and head. And an anger. Growing. He pushed it back. Not yet.

  “What’s your stake in this, Lanson? Why risk sending your little men away to talk with something that was ready to brain ya?”

  Lanson’s composure cracked slightly. “Because Lenny is sixteen and his mother is my sister. Because if you wanted to kill us, we’d be dead already. We all tried to move your makeshift…weapon. It is fine where it is. And because…” He stopped, wiping his brow on his arm. “I have spent these years pretending the things I have seen were just tricks of the light or tall tales told by drunk men. You have proven this otherwise. And I wish to understand.”

  (Bob)

  Interesting. This captain has lost someone. Someone important. He hopes you are proof they may yet live. You are not.

  “Lanson.” Ainmire popped his neck, first left and then right. “I don’t remember much, pal. But that code nonsense of yours tickled me in just the right way. Might still be rattling around this head of mine. Maybe.”

  The captain studied him. “Can you leave my ship?”

  “Why would I? Lovely place you got here.”

  “Will you hurt my crew?”

  The presence behind his eyes stirred, a cold thing living in his veins.

  (Bob)

  You will. You are inevitable. But it will be brief. Then, no more pain. Patience for now.

  “Nah, not gonna hurt your crew,” Ainmire shrugged. “But scaring the hell out of them? Sometimes you gotta make your own fun, you know?”

  “Then we have a problem.” Lanson nodded slowly. “We’re three weeks from anywhere. I can’t have a… corpse scaring my men half to death. Figure of speech, of course. No offense intended. Would make for an incredibly unsafe voyage.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  Another long pause. “I suggest you stay where you are. Away from my crew. I suggest you tell me what you do remember about being alive. About why you are able to sit here, talking to me now.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “And when we do make port, I suggest you leave quietly and never come near my ship again.”

  (Bob)

  Arrogance. Acceptable terms. For now.

  The hold. Dark, damp, and isolated. Away from the light. Away from its warmth.

  “What port?”

  “Levelle. Neutral ground, a free port.” Lanson narrowed his eyes. “No questions asked so long as all parties play their parts.”

  Grit success

  You can endure anything. Can they?

  “I’ll manage.” Ainmire stood. No sway or stagger this time. “Three weeks until Levelle. Then you make me someone else’s problem.”

  “Indeed. One more thing,” Lanson said as he watched Ainmire claim his spot in the hold. “The name, Ainmire. Do you know its meaning?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “In the language of old—spoken before the Shattered Kingdoms, before crowns—it means ‘Great King’. Or ‘High King’. Really, it depends on the translation.” Lanson turned, readying to leave. “An interesting bit of knowledge. Nothing more.”

  (Bob)

  A man of education. A scholar lacking in wisdom. He is not wrong. Ainmire the Meat-Thing will show him this one day.

  Ainmire ignored the voice in his head. He was getting good at that already.

  New ability acquired!