A/N: I wrote this on my phone at 4:30 in the morning before I went to sleep. Here I am, sitting on my bed, attempting for the billionth time to write a story that I've been rolling over and over in my brain for the past seven or eight months with Excedrin in my system, ear plugs in my ears, a dim headache at the forefront of my brain, and the grueling realization that I go back to work in twelve hours after a week-long vacation spent six and a half hours away. I'm tired, my head hurts, I have work, I feel gross, but I feel fairly motivated to write. On my phone. As I have typed Numb up, when there is literally my laptop three inches from my feet and my phone is at twenty percent battery.
I will write this out. I will finish this chapter, and I will post it and feed off of reviews and excitement. I will give a taste of my genius to you who indulge in my first Overwatch fanfiction-this misshapen putty of plot half-formed in my mind-and absorb the energy from those of you who like and comment and subscribe for more of this terrible pirate story that's been brewing in my mind for what feels like centuries.
With that, I leave you to enjoy. And hopefully I don't get stuck on the first paragraph yet again. And if there are mistakes, remember: I wrote this on my phone, tired. I'll review it tomorrow or the day after on my computer and fix it. That said, do let me know of errors or inconsistencies. I feed off of criticism.
There was a brief period of time where the bar was filled with a blissful quiet. The servers picked up half-empty plates and glasses that were once full of alcohol and set them in their tubs to take into the kitchen, and the stragglers of the lunch crowd disappeared for the day, leaving the restaurant employees to clean up after their own messes, wipe off tables of the mess they made, and leave tips less dependent on how much they had and more dependent on the value of their character. The waiters and waitresses shuffled behind and around him, quiet in their own right and accepting of the shift, and rarely spoke except to each other, eager for their relief to come so they could go home to whatever family they had or whatever empty house they kept.
Roadhog didn't pay any mind to them, focused more on the task of enjoying his beer, as he'd done for the past couple of days he spent in this shithole of a town down by the sea. He listened vaguely to them as they talked about their tips and talked shit about other employees who weren't there that day and talked about how late their relief was and how shitty some of their tables were. It was boring, to say the least, but it was still quieter than it was earlier. The occasional person came in and the host seated them, and the servers complained to each other about the host doing his job when he was back by the host stand-very monotonous, petty things that was the only background noise he could listen to at the moment.
The real shitstorm that happened behind the scenes was funny, to say the least. He knew just by hearing the door open and the number of footsteps that came crowding in that he was about to hear more complaining, more whining and bitching. He heard behind his back the host greeting them in the friendliest voice he could manage, sounding tired and dreading just the same.
"Hello, welcome to Snapper's Seafood Palace," he said, cheerfully as possible. "How are you all today?"
"There will be twenty-seven of us." The woman spoke with an accent Roadhog couldn't place and an undertone in her voice that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He glanced over his shoulder briefly, looking over at the entrance, and saw what was unmistakably a large crew of pirates filtering in two-by-two through the double doors. The pirates wore all manner of clothing and were a variety of different sizes and shapes, with maybe half of them hosting a wide array of prosthetics.
The woman who spoke, though-simply looking at her sent a shudder down his spine and caused a queasy feeling to blossom in his stomach. It was the immaculate manner that she dressed in, all pressed and formal, and the way she carried herself like the captain of a Naval vessel-the clean, pale face and the searing acuity of her eyes.
"Do you have a reservation with us?" The host asked, as he was counting menus.
"No," she answered, her tone bland and fascinatingly devoid of emotion or interest.
"Will there be any children?"
"No," she said again, just as before. The host set the menus to the side a moment later, and he excused himself so that he could set the tables up.
The pirates were already beginning to grow rowdy by the time the host left the front. Already Roadhog could hear no more than twenty feet away from him the servers bickering over who was going to take the table-because no one wanted to take thirty people when they were supposed to be off the clock fifteen minutes ago.
The silence was broken by the sound of excited chatter, in a restaurant that didn't particularly care to have them here as customers. It irked Roadhog to have his silence broken, though the context almost made up for it with curiosity.
The woman's eyes turned to leer into his.
In an instant, he felt his blood run cold from the sheer intensity of her stare, and he wondered how long she knew he was staring. There was a strong possibility that she knew the whole time, and was only waiting until the time was convenient for her to analyze the situation. For her to, essentially, make a silent threat.
Roadhog wasn't an idiot. He wasn't going to take on a thirty-man crew in the middle of a public place. He grunted dismissively and returned to his drink, staring at the bottom of his glass and noticing only now how tightly he was clenching it, so tightly that his knuckles were beginning to whiten. He forced his hand to relax, moving it away momentarily to flex his fingers. No, he wasn't going to take on an entire crew by himself here. He'll save that for the sea.
Within the hour, the crew filled half the restaurant with noise and chatter. Jovial noises rang throughout the din, and discussions between the lot of them grew from trips down memory lane to more current, more recent, more immediate events. The bartender busied herself to make the orders for all of the pirates, filling glass upon glass with beer and wine and rum and ale, and Roadhog continued sitting at the bar, deciding that he may as well listen in to the gossip before he left the bar and this miserable little town forever.
So Roadhog listened. Finding potentially useful or interesting information was like finding golden coins in a bale of hay while blindfolded, but he listened all the same and came to catch up on some topics he was curious about for the past couple of weeks.
"They're testing out a new breed of ship," someone indistinguishable said. Her words slurred slightly, melding together and a bit difficult to understand. "Some kind of... tank thing, from what I've heard from Earnest." Amidst exclamations of disbelief and dismissal, she exclaimed: "No no no, I swear it's true! Mates, I saw the pictures. It was so bizarre-all cannonballs made of light and somesuch! I don't know how they do it. It's like fucking magic."
It sounded like something Volskaya Industries might attempt to cook up for the Navy, but he wasn't certain about the whole 'cannonballs made of light' idea. It was so bizarre and far-fetched that he snorted, finishing off his shark fillet and by now only biding his time before deciding it was time to leave. There was a possibility that it was just an exaggeration to get more attention.
Silk and wood was as much a necessary resource as ever, and the value of electronic components finally came down a notch.
They didn't speak of anything else that caught his interest, though, so after a while he stood to his feet and turned to leave. It was nearing five o'clock by this point, and if he knew pirates well enough, then he knew that they'd probably stay for a few hours longer. The longer they stayed, the more they'll drink, the louder they'll get and the more nonsense they'll spout out. The only thing he heard in passing as he left was someone asking something about valuable cargo, and the bright but inattentive and delayed voice of the hostess as she called for him to 'have a great day' halfway through the door.
He felt the woman's eyes on him the whole way out, felt the back of his neck stand on end. It was more irritating than anything else, and he paused outside of the window, turning to leer back at her over his shoulder. Intimidation was a game, and he would not be cowed so easily into submission. She leered back with just as much intensity, narrowing her unnaturally, inhumanly amber eyes. Roadhog scowled, clenching his jaw and baring his teeth at her, canines bared to the wind. It was an intended message.
I did not leave because of you.
Her expression didn't change except for what felt like minutes but was truly moments later, where one of her crew members retrieved her attention over some matter or another, and Roadhog continued along his way, snorting derisively. It was only when he passed the last window of the restaurant that he began to relax and breathe in the salty tang of the ocean, gazing about to take in his surroundings.
Snapper's was located on the outskirts of a town located on an island just outside of Alpha Atlantica. It was a popular place for thrill-seeking tourists and pirates alike, mostly because enforcement was firm enough to punish pirates for misdeeds but loose enough for it to generally not be a problem, and the close proximity to pirates was deemed safe enough for tourists who were eager for a change of pace. Aside from that, the town was bleak, grey and uninteresting, and the only reason Roadhog decided to stay as long as he did was because of his need to lay low for a good week or so. He was planning on leaving today, anyways-the fact that he heard this gossip from some pirates was fortunate but unnecessary. He made a beeline for the docks, rolling over chores he'll need to do when he got there and what he'd need to check and plotting out his course. Perhaps he'd sail over to the Thaislands and take advantage of the lingering price of silk, carry it to the islands along the Pacificas and see where it went from there.
Roadhog continued to walk for a short while, humming a quiet tune on his full belly and feeling rather optimistic about his plan. He sauntered towards the docks in this fairly good mood, but brought himself slowly to a pause, coming to a standstill, catching sight of a certain ship hitched at the dock.
It wasn't there this morning, if he recalled correctly. The ship was an absolutely beautiful and massive galley, with the most distinctive trait at this distance being the thin, spindly black masts that supported heavy sails, looking lined with velvet or silk. She'd be a beauty to see on the sea, he was certain. Black sails unfurled against just-as-black masts, they'd be practically invisible on nights when the moon went unseen in the sky, and a terrifyingly visible and imposing sight during the day. It reminded him, ironically, of an assassin.
Curious, he continued on to the docks, walking the remaining couple blocks with a question at the forefront of his mind demanding an answer. When he got close, he was disappointed. No-like many other ships traveling the ocean these days, this assassin ship wasn't made of wood. Instead, it favored a lightweight, dark metal that was amazingly smooth. It'd cause little drag in the water if the design was consistent all around. It was truly an impressive ship-a deadly assassin designed to strike first and without warning.
It suddenly reminded him of the woman. Realization struck.
This was her ship. Whoever that woman was, exactly, this ship belonged to her, and it was shockingly well-made for a mere pirate's ship. It cost a lot to get her this way, looked horribly custom-made.
And it sounded almost empty.
He remembered what the pirate said as he left suddenly-something about important cargo. If the cargo was important to such a wealthy pirate, then surely it was worth something, right? He recalled the look in her eyes-the underlying threat behind them, the analytical severity-and decided, in that moment, to take it up as a challenge before he left the island altogether. Besides, it seemed fairly empty-not completely, but enough to work with.
But first, he had to stop by his own ship, gather his own resources so he could take on whatever it was they had to offer. While he could take on an entire crew in the middle of the ocean all alone, he wasn't going to chance being killed immediately without his backup.