Ships, as promised: John/Vriska, Dave/Jade, Karkat/Terezi, Dirk/Jake, Kanaya/Rose, more to be added.

The steamboat docked in the London Harbor at just past six in the afternoon. It was a fine ship, chugging smoothly across the Atlantic without stopping, and still offering utmost comfort to the passengers. John Egbert watched the harbor grow larger as he propped himself up on the rail circling the deck. He breathed in the coal-tainted air and allowed a small, slightly buck-toothed smile. He was certain that he'd made the right choice.

John's coming to England had not sat well with his father at first. Mr. Egbert argued that all of the opportunities to be found in Great Britain could just as easily be found in America. John had explained that he only wanted to be a pilot, and because of the prominence of river and train travel in the United States, there was simply no demand for airplanes. London, however, was a capital of machinery the likes of which was not seen worldwide. In the end, his father had lent him the money for his ticket and given him his blessing.

John braced his gloved hands on the rail as the ship came to a rocky stop. He reached into his waistcoat and clicked open his silver pocket watch, a gift from his soon-to-be-roommate, Dave Strider. Dave, a native Brit, was one of the most highly sought watch makers in the country. He had studied at Dartmouth College in America the year before, which was how the two had come to meet. Dave had immediately offered John room and board when he'd learned that his classmate was on his way from across the pond.

A steward picked up John's suitcases and guided him onto the ramp that sloped to the dock. John handed him a few notes (as he had smartly converted his American currency into British pounds, shillings, and pennies) and took up his luggage. There was a light London drizzle in the air, but his spirits were high. Even as he was shoved to and fro on the dock he kept up a bright grin. The gruff sailors looked at him as if her was running around stark naked.

He eventually made his way off the docks and onto the street, which was marred here and there by the odd automobile or two. The young man set his bags down and waited for a taxi, rocking on his heels with his hands in the pockets of his trousers. He tipped his hat down to keep the rain out of his eyes. He looked like a regular old Brit, he thought. Too bad his American accent would absolutely ruin the façade.

A taxi nearly passed him, but his frantic waving flagged down the driver. He stowed his luggage in the boot of the car and dove into the mercifully dry back seat.

"Where to, aye?" the driver asked, through a thick accent.

John read the address he'd been given to the man, an address in the centre of London. They left the great River Thames behind as the taxi sped up. Excitement gripped John; he was confident that everything would go smoothly. This was his chance, after all.

Dave's shop was deep in the metropolis of London. The cab left John on a wide, busy street, packed with automobiles and people and horse-drawn carts. The smell of horse droppings was just under the scents of coal and smoke. John hefted his luggage up ― the rain was beginning to fall more urgently ― and dashed in front of a carriage's horses. He crossed Dave's threshold with the carriage's driver screaming curses at his back.

The shop was warm and dim, lit only by a medley of lamps and the fireplace. John passed an unmanned counter and stared around unabashedly. Dave's finished watches and other timekeeping devices were laid out in display cases along the wood-paneled walls and on a table in the center of the room. They were all of the finest quality, which was what Dave was known for. Unsure of what to do, John tapped his foot on the wine red carpet a few times and reached over, pulling the string on the front desk's bell.

"It's about time you got here," Dave Strider said in greeting, appearing from a back room noiselessly.

"Dave!" John dropped his suitcases and shook Dave's hand fiercely, smile bright. "Glad to see you, too!"

"Calm down, Mr. Egbert," another voice said, amused. "That's so unbecoming of a young man like yourself."

A young woman, barely out of her teens by the looks of it, also emerged from the back room. Her long black hair was twisted into a messy knot at the back of her neck. She wore an apron over her clothes, which she wiped her oil-stained hands on.

"You must be Jade," John inferred, bowing his head to Dave's fiancé. He was well versed in British culture and knew to treat a lady with respect, especially if she was married or engaged. "Pleasure to meet you."

She smiled at him. "And you're John. I take it we'll be seeing a lot of you?"

"More than I'd like to see," Dave muttered, though he couldn't have minded John's staying with him; he had suggested it, after all.

"Oh, quiet, you," Jade chided. "It's an honor, John. Now I need to get back to my work. Mr. Zahhak won't be pleased if I shuck my responsibilities."

"What's her work?" John asked as she departed again.

"Automatons," Dave replied. "She's trying to fix up an old robot. Frankly, it doesn't make sense to me. I'll stick to clocks." As he spoke, he showed John the engagement ring he wore: it was fashioned like a gear.

"That's enough chit chat," the clock maker said. "You'd best take your things up. Your room is upstairs, second one on the right."

"Thanks again!" John called as he carried his luggage into a slightly hidden alcove and up a winding staircase. He followed Dave's instructions and let himself into a bland bedroom, unmarked by any indication that it had ever been slept in. He whistled a tune while he put his clothes away, then sat down on the edge of the bed. It was time to get his thoughts in order.

He already knew exactly where he needed to go to find work. All rich men and aircraft owners seeking pilots went to the docks that he had just left and put up their queries in the local pubs, hoping to weed out respectable young workers to fly their planes, deliver their packages, and so on. John prayed that he'd be able to find work soon; he would run out of money soon enough, and the thought of asking Dave for anything more felt horrible and selfish.


Dave offered to let John drive his personal automobile to the docks, but John felt bashful accepting such luxuries from someone who had already given him so much. The clock maker managed to get John to at least take the horse he kept in the back lot. Grudgingly, John fitted a saddle on the steed and swung onto it.

The horse's hooves clopped on the cobblestone rhythmically, soothing John's nerves. He was justifiably anxious. For all he knew, he'd never get a job; he'd be stuck unemployed and useless forever, maybe have to go crawling back to the states, to his smug father.

The traffic cleared as he approached the docks, which were chock-full of bars and pubs and shanties. He had no idea concerning which one to pick. In the end, he tied the horse up in front of the largest, most inviting pub and stepped inside, worrying his hat between his hands.

The pub was loud, crowded, and reeked of alcohol. But he saw more than a few wealthy folks in the mass. That was good. Wealthy men had money and nothing to do with it, which was when they bought planes they couldn't pilot and ships they couldn't sail.

John hung his hat and overcoat on the hooks by the door and sat on a bar stool. He scanned his eyes across the walls, picking out a few fliers that were too small to read. He wagered that they were what he was looking for.

"Can I get you something, sir?"

He started in surprise. The barmaid was watching him with guarded green eyes, wondering if he perhaps drunk? But no, had she already served him? He saw in the questions in her expression.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I was distracted. I think I'll have water, please."

She seemed surprised, but slid a glass of water to him nonetheless. After a moment, she confronted him again. "You're not from around here, are you?"

His cheeks burned with embarrassment. "It's that obvious?"

"Yes," she confirmed, smiling at his bashfulness. "But that's alright. My name is Kanaya. And you are?"

"John. John Egbert," he told her, shaking hands. He handed her a tip in the same gesture, which she tucked into the corset of her dress.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Egbert. You seem to be looking for something."

"I am," he said, drinking from his water. "I came to London to be a pilot. Everyone I've talked to had told me I'll find work here."

She nodded at this. "You will. I see young men like yourself get employed left and right. However…" Her eyes narrowed slightly, as if she was not supposed to say what was spilling from her mouth. "If you can't find any work at all, and you're absolutely desperate, come see me."

He quirked an eyebrow at her strange behavior, but the man next to him was watching the exchange with interest, so Kanaya moved on quickly. "And if you ever need the services of a tailor, I can help you with that." She handed him a slip of parchment, her card, indicating that she was indeed a tailor of the highest caliber.

"Thank you," he said slowly, nodding to her. He moved to the far wall and read the fliers. Many of them were seeking pilots, to his relief. He copied down the telephone numbers of possible employers in his pocket book and snapped it shut. He had enough change to go to the telephone booth outside and make the calls, though it would take some time.

Good thing he had a lot of that.


Equius Zahhak owned a shop not far from Dave's, littered with scraps of brass and copper and more screws than could be counted without a difference engine. From the ceiling hung the skeletons of half-finished automatons and other robotic projects. Equius was one of the best in the field, had good business, and loved his work.

Jade Harley, soon to be Jade Strider, arrived at the shop with a hard face; she would impress the boss today, but not the way she wanted to. She hopped down from the carriage, paid a beggar boy to tie up the horses, and had him carry the large man-sized box she'd brought along into the shop with her.

"Bloody 'ell," he panted, once the box had been set down inside. "Whatchoo got in there, Missus?"

"Something special," she said, not smiling. She gave him a few shillings, which he gratefully accepted as he left. Her boss had his black-tinted spectacles in one hand when he stepped around the counter to take a look for himself.

"I presume you finished your task?" Equius asked, pulling on his fingerless gloves to peek into the box. He pried off the lid easily with his abnormally muscular arms.

"I did," she said, heavily. "It was better than I expected."

"We shall see." He gripped the box's inhabitant and shifted it carefully out onto the nearest table.

It was an automaton, plated in shining reflective brass. The shape and size resembled that of a human man with eerie accuracy. Equius breathed out loudly though his nose, picking up the machine's skeletal hand gently and observing its fingers. They were not as human-like, and therefore slightly bulky, as the rest of the pseudo-body. The fingers were delicate and spindly. Capable, he knew, of very precise motion.

"You didn't…?"

His question trailed off. Eyes hard, Jade reached into her overcoat, withdrawing an ancient pistol. It was an older model; it shot bullets, not the kind that exploded on impact, or beams of aether like the newer plasma guns. She passed the weapon to him. Hands shaking, Equius arranged the automaton's fingers so that they held the gun the way a human would.

"Did you test it?" he inquired.

"No."

He swallowed, aware that she had quite possibly solved a problem that had plagued engineers since the first successful automaton had come about.

Hesitantly, he reached around, fingertips feeling for the machine's switch, on the back of its neck. He found it and flicked it on.

The automaton's eyelids fluttered, though its sockets had no eyes, only sensors. It sat up woodenly. Equius and Jade watched in silence, waiting to see if it would, by some terrible miracle, do what Sollux Captor had programmed it to do: shoot.

The problem was not in Sollux's handiwork. Mr. Captor was one of the best when it came to difference and analytical engines; it if took a punch-card, he knew what he was doing. The problem was that modern mechanics had trouble creating an automaton that had limbs precise enough, strong enough, and at the same time small enough to handle a weapon. It seemed that Jade Harley had figured it out.

The automaton, like it was made to, pointed the gun at its own head, blinked once more, and pulled the trigger.

Equius didn't care that the bullet ruined the engine in its metal skull. He did not care that the bullet lodged itself in the far wall, or that the gun fell and skidded under a table, or that the damaged robot collapsed heavily on his hands.

He only knew that it was possible, and this was not good.

"Well," Jade said. "I suppose that question is answered."

"Quite." He threw the destroyed automaton into the scrap pile behind him, to recycle its parts, and leaned heavily on the table. He was only twenty-five, but he felt older.

"You know what this means," she said gravely.

"It means," he said, a light sheen of sweat collecting on his skin, under his apron and sleeves and trousers. "It means, Ms. Harley, that if we can do it, someone else can."


"Adventurer for hire," Jake English shouted to the passerby, desperate. "Adventurer's services, low price! Will pay for transportation," he said, voice weakening.

He heaved a sigh and sat down on the sidewalk, boots inches from passing automobiles. Things were not looking good for him. He hated it, but he realized that he would just have to accept the facts. Adventurers were simply dying out, crushed in the wake of modern technology.

Jake spun his twin pistols, sleek black weapons that weren't common. Most guns were fashioned with brass plating, but he'd had the custom-made aether-shooting plasma pistols special made for his adventures. Adventures, he feared, that would never come to fruition. By the looks of things he'd have to give up on his dreams of an adrenaline-laced life of death-defying exploits.

There was a roar, and Jake jumped back from the roadside as an automobile nearly hit him. It was gaudy, expensive, and definitely not owned by and upstanding society man. The flame-painted door opened and an unfamiliar man stepped out.

"Adventurer, eh?" he asked, spitting tobacco into the gutter and kicking the sign Jake held lightly. "I know someone who could use you, lad. What's your name?"

"Jake English," he answered, shaking hands and getting to his feet. "Who wants to know?"

"You ever hear of Dirk Strider?" When Jake shook his head, the man continued. "Great mechanic, that one. He's recruiting young scrappers like yourself to watch out for him and his shop."

"Like some sort of body guard?"

"A bit," he agreed. "But Mr. Strider gets up to a lot of trouble these days. You won't be bored, I promise."

"Is that so?" It wasn't exactly what Jake was hoping for, but he needed money; no time to complain about how he got it. "You're on. When do I start?"

He scribbled something down on a sheaf of parchment and handed it over. "Come to this address whenever you're ready."

The man said his goodbyes and climbed back into his ostentatious vehicle. Jake waited until it was around the corner to pick up his damp sign, stuff the address in his pocket, and start for home. He had the feeling working for Mr. Strider would be an ordeal.


Terezi Pyrope's office was in the depths of the police headquarters, cramped and messy, as was befitting for a detective of her rank. Her high scores on her entrance exam were the only reason she'd been granted her own office at all. The other young officer in her class were stuck carrying around heavy briefcases that barely closed, stuffed so full of documents that they were fit to burst any second.

She ran her fingertips over the report she'd just received in her mailbox upstairs, reading Braille with practiced ease. None of the information came as a surprise to her. Pirate raids on the water, pirate raids in the air. Thousands of pounds in goods, gone. Same old, same old.

The perpetrators were yet to be identified, but she could guess. The attacks on the sea fit a particular criminal's profile to the letter ― a criminal that she, and everyone else, had little chance of convicting. His social status protected him from the brunt of the law; even when he was caught, which was infrequent, he left the courtroom with a slap on the wrist. But she would get him eventually. Patience, she believed, was the best weapon a detective wielded.

The raids in the air over London were even more obvious, bat at the same time more difficult to crack. Everyone and their mum knew who was responsible. This criminal, however, managed to slip through the fingers of the police like oil time and time again. Terezi's patience was wearing thin with the air pirate, a woman who she thought she knew, once upon a time.

Terezi took a calming breath and organized her papers. She was fully briefed, though she didn't need to be. She was too young, too inexperienced to be assigned to either case. Just like every other time these two pulled off some big heists. Her superiors promised that one day, her skill would be used to apprehend them; until that day, she was stuck finding petty thieves and minor offenders.

It was frustrating, at times. She knew, given the chance, that she could end the pirate's reign of terror. She would have them hanged before the spring. They left such glaringly obvious clues, too. Yet every time she tried to bring a tip to a senior detective, she was brushed off. Too young. Too inexperienced.

No use dwelling, she decided, firmly. Who said she couldn't pursue the criminals? If she were to convict them, with or without permission, it was still a public service. They were the filth of London. People would thank her for her relentless victory.

A quiet knock interrupted her silent resolves. "Come in!"

Karkat Vantas slammed the door behind him loudly, hard enough that the door shook in its frame. That was why she knew it was him. No one else came to a detective's door, knocked respectfully, then kicked the door shut carelessly. Only Karkat.

"Good evening." His American accent was hard on her fine-tuned ears. Though he was London-born, he'd spent his childhood in a New York City orphanage. He'd only been in England since his twenty-first birthday three years prior.

"Good evening, Mr. Vantas," she said, smirking. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You know exactly why I'm here, Detective," he spat, sitting down in the chair before her desk. Between her chair, his chair, the desk, and the bookshelf, there was barely enough room to maneuver.

She smiled wider and reached into her left desk drawer, extracting a pitifully thin folder. It was labeled "Vantas" and filled with a mixture of Braille documents she'd been given and Braille documents she'd personally written on her modified typewriter.

"Have you made any progress?" he asked, irritable and hopeful at the same time.

"None," she answered brightly. "But don't worry, Karkat. I'll find your parents' killer."

This was a bold promise, considering she had been working the case since the day he'd returned to London. Three years of interviewing back-alley scum and paying interns with working eyes to dig through thousands of documents had produced little to nothing, though she had an eye-witness to the crime; unfortunately, the eye-witness was sitting inches from her and had been about two-and-a-half years old at the time.

He sighed heavily. "Thanks anyway. Look, I can't stay long, I have to get back to work. Just wanted to drop my, just in case."

She patted his gloved hand sympathetically. "Don't give up hope, chap. Chin up! I'll finish this."

He stood up, retracting his hand as if he'd been burned. "Fine. Goodbye."

He stalked out of her office. The whole exchange couldn't have taken more than a few minutes. Terezi brushed her fingers over the wall clock Dave Strider had personally made her; it was faceless, allowing her to feel exactly where the minute and hour hands were. It was nearing eight-thirty. Time to pack up and head home, she reminded herself, tidying up her mess of papers and files. She took her cane and paused with her hand on the door knob.

Her decision to find and apprehend the pirates swam back into her head. It was stupid, honestly; she could be fired. But she hadn't joined the police force for the job, had she? She'd joined to do what was right. And she knew, in her very core, that this was right. That maybe, perhaps, she was the only person who could stop this.

Which was really a ridiculous notion, when she thought about it.

Not that it would stop her.


By the time John finished up making his calls, and visited the other pubs, a week had passed. He had absolutely no job offers and very little hope. He walked all the way to the pub, in the rain, head down. At the bar, he ordered ale, and drank from it deeply. Kanaya watched him knowingly.

"Alright," he said after a while. "I give up. I need your help."

"You're sure?"

"Very."

She sighed and motioned for him to lean closer. "I can arrange your employment with a close friend of mine, but there's a bit of a catch."

He swallowed, hands wrapped around his glass. "A catch?"

"That's why you should only agree to this if you're completely desperate. You see, it wouldn't be entirely legal, per say."

At his wide eyes, she waved on hand. "You won't have to hurt anyone, Mr. Ebert. I like to think you'll be like Robin Hood. Taking from the rich to give to the poor."

"You mean to say I'll be a thief?"

"Not so much a thief as a…" She hesitated her, nails tapping lightly on the polished bar. "Pirate."

His mouth fell slack. He knew all about pirates; they were quite commonplace in England. Many of them outfitted their boats and submarines to attack unsuspecting ocean liners, while others took to the skies in airships and planes. All of them were ruthless. He couldn't imagine being one of them, not for a second.

"Are you daffy?" he whispered, afraid someone would over hear.

She gave him a sharp look. "If you aren't interested you can move on and kindly keep your mouth shut. And if anyone asks you, you didn't hear any of this from me."

He was seconds from declining. His mouth opened, formed around the word "No"; but he stopped. He thought of Dave and Jade, eyeing him when they thought he wasn't looking. They had every right to. A whole week had passed, yet he had no income. He felt his cheeks burn just thinking about it. It was embarrassing, not being able to pay his friends something for room and board, though Dave never asked.

Maybe this was what John needed? No, how preposterous. He couldn't turn himself over to a life of crime ― or could he? He would be doing what he loved, after all, and making money while doing it. He would be able to give Dave some compensation. He wouldn't have to go back to the States, or his father.

Temporarily, he decided, he could be a pirate. Just until he found employment. No more than that.

Well, this was probably the biggest mistake of his young life.

"Fine." He closed his eyes as he spoke. "I'm in."

She looked just the slightest bit dejected at his answer ― she'd turned a young man against the law, after all ― but she still told him, "Meet me here at twelve this evening. And don't tell anyone."

As he wrapped himself in his overcoat and placed his hat on his unruly black hair, he was quite certain he was about to ruin his life.