ACT III - The Sky Pirates of the S.S. Brooklyn

Crutchie never thought that there would be a single place in the world that would make him miss the Refuge, but the great hall of Stormhold Keep sure does it. Spending all of his life stuck with one warlock is bad enough, but a meeting of several of the kingdom's most powerful warlocks is terrifying. And that's not even counting the king. The only relief is that Fey slaves like him aren't allowed into the main room in case they overhear something important, so they are left in a cramped antechamber to wait.

Crutchie shifts his position, leaning some of the weight onto his crutch as his good leg twinges. His right leg is useless on a good day, but in a place like this, where the magic is so thick and heavy in the air that he can taste it, his leg kills. The hex that crippled him left spider webs of livid violet and black coiling up his leg like lightning bursts, a low-key magic that keeps his muscles from working. Here, the scars drink up the extra magic in the air and send flares of sparks through his nerves.

One of the kids near him, a tiny girl who can't be more than twelve, muffles a sob through her knuckles. She's definitely new to the job, the skin of her wrists raw beneath the iron bands, and she is shaking as she struggles to control herself. Crutchie listens to hear if there's anyone approaching the door and then he takes an awkward step closer. The girl startles, looking up at him with wide eyes through the fringe of her short hair, and Crutchie gives her his most reassuring smile.

"What'cha name?" he asks in an undertone. He sees the other three Fey cast incredulous looks at him - they aren't necessarily forbidden from talking, but it's assumed - but he ignores them, keeping his eyes trained on the girl. "My name's Crutchie."

"'Cause you gots'a crutch?" the girl whispers.

Crutchie feigns surprise, glancing at the crutch tucked under his arm and frowning thoughtfully. "Huh, neva thought'a that," he says. "Youse smart."

The girl gives him a knowing smile, one that wrinkles up her nose. "Youse silly," she responds. Then, softer, "My name's Smalls."

"You wanna see a trick?" Crutchie asks, leaning in conspiratorially.

Smalls' eyes light up with curiosity. Grinning, Crutchie digs a piece of twine out of his pocket. He shows it to her - and he can see the other Fey watching with interest as well - and then presses the string between his palms. Closing his eyes in concentration, he rubs his hands together, feeling the twine curl and twist in his palms.

"Ready?" Crutchie asks, squinting one eye at Smalls. She leans forward eagerly and Crutchie opens his hands, revealing the twine, which has been twisted and knotted into the shape of a flower. Smalls gasps. "For you, milady," he says, and tucks it behind the girl's ear with a grin.

"How'ja do that?" she asks in wonder.

Crutchie pointedly resists the urge to scratch at his wrists, where his skin is burning and itching beneath the iron bands in punishment for sneaking the whisper of magic. "We's so much more 'an they says we is," he tells her solemnly, and lets his gaze flicker to the Fey in the corner pretending not to listen. "I know it's scary now, but one day, it's gonna get betta. We's gonna be okay."

Smalls throws herself at him with so much force it almost knocks him over, and Crutchie has to cling to her shoulders to keep himself upright. He strokes her hair and makes soft shushing sounds as Smalls shudders against his stomach, breathing deeply to keep her tears at bay. She pulls herself together after a minute, drying her face on the collar of her tatty shirt. As she does, Crutchie catches sight of the underside of her wrist, where the raw skin has turned to scabs, and his stomach turns.

Taking his weight off his crutch, he tears off the rag that covers the wood at the top. He uses his teeth to tear it into thin ribbons and then gestures Smalls closer, crouching awkwardly on his good leg. "This'll hurt a bit," he says, "but it'll help too, 'kay? Show me ya hands."

Smalls holds out her arms without hesitation and Crutchie's heart seizes at the open trust in the gesture. He finishes braiding the strips of cloth together and then wraps one plait around her tiny wrist. Pulling it as snug as he can, he looks up and makes sure she's ready before sliding the fabric up beneath the iron band.

It's slow going, easing the cloth into the narrow gap between the iron and her tender skin. Smalls bites her lip, scrunching up her face to hide her whimpers whenever the fabric scrapes at a scab. Crutchie moves as carefully as he can but he knows he can't take too much time; the risk of the warlocks' meeting ending and their masters coming for them gets higher every minute. When he finally gets the handmade bracelet settled into place under her band, he squeezes her fingertips reassuringly.

"Youse doin' great, kid," he says, swiping at a stray tear that's escaped down her cheek. "Up for anotha?" Smalls glances between her wrists, then takes a deep breath and nods. Crutchie gets the second bracelet on her with even less struggle and he makes sure the bands hide them well enough before nodding. "There ya go. Feel betta?"

Smalls twists her wrists experimentally, a furrow between her eyebrows as she stares with intense focus. "It don't scratch," she says in surprise.

Crutchie beams. "Oughta stop them bands scraping at ya skin s'much," he says. "Our li'l secret." Smalls returns his conspiratorial wink, grinning up at him as she continues to flex her wrists.

Crutchie straightens up and his good leg spasms beneath him as he struggles upright, almost sending him to the ground. Then there's a pair of hands on his arm, a narrow shoulder sturdy beneath his elbow that gives him enough balance to get up and tuck his crutch back under his arm. Smalls watches him for a second, making sure he's okay before she lets go of his arm. "Thanks, kid," he says appreciatively, leaning his weight onto the crutch to lessen the burn in his muscles. He ruffles her hair and Smalls huffs, batting his hand away while trying to hide her smile.

The door to the anteroom slams open and all of them flinch at the same time. It's just as much an ingrained habit as it is to immediately line up and filter out of the room, falling into place behind their warlocks. Crutchie spares a final, secretive smile for Smalls as she heads off to her warlock, a balding member of the king's entourage that he doesn't recognize. A sharp whistle falls on Crutchie's ears like a whip crack and he picks up his pace.

Mr. Snyder is an unpleasant man on the best of days, and the expression on his face doesn't give Crutchie much hope that he's having a good day. Safe bet that the meeting didn't go well, which is bad news for Crutchie but good news in general. Snyder is the warlock who manages the Refuge, the prison for juvenile Fey who haven't been assigned work. If the king is berating Snyder, that means the Refuge numbers haven't been going up, which means that many more Fey kids who still have their freedom.

"Useless cripple," Snyder jeers in greeting when Crutchie catches up to him. Yeah, definitely bad news for Crutchie. He hurries to keep up with the warlock as he crosses the corridor and steps into the main hall. Most of the other warlocks are already gone and when they get to the entrance hall, there's only one small cluster of people standing beside the doors. Crutchie has only seen them in person a few times since he was picked up by Snyder, but he would recognize those faces anywhere.

"What do you mean," growls King Pulitzer, his tone of forced calm doing nothing to mask the anger vibrating beneath, "that it got away?" The king makes for an intimidating figure, towering high in his sharp, black suit. His graying hair is trimmed in precise lines that accentuate the angles of his face, and the signet ring of his house glimmers bright on his hand.

Opposite the king is his right-hand man and number one lickfinger, Mr. Wiesel. He's a high-level warlock that Pulitzer uses primarily for enforcing the law, cruel and efficient but also cunning. The kids at the Refuge took to calling him the Weasel. He's flanked, as usual, by his stone-faced goons and extra muscle, the Delanceys; to this day, Crutchie still hasn't figured out what they are, only that they aren't Fey or human.

"There was a complication," says Weasel. "Someone else found the star first."

Snyder slows his pace to less-than-leisurely, clearly eavesdropping under the pretense of crossing the entrance hall. With the way even his good leg is threatening to buckle, Crutchie is all too happy to match the slower speed.

Pulitzer draws himself up even higher, eyebrows shifting to form a dangerous V. "Who?" he demands. "Another warlock? Or one of the Children?" He fidgets at his collar for a moment, where Crutchie knows that normally a gold chain would hold the Gem of Stormhold. There had been rumors that the gem has made its traditional vanishing act, but Crutchie's heart leaps to see it's true. He doesn't know what's coming, but he won't be sorry to see the end of Pulitzer's rule.

"A Fey boy," Weasel says, averting his gaze.

"What?!" Pulitzer's voice shakes the room like thunder and everyone - even the Delanceys, who normally don't react to much of anything - recoils. "You mean to tell me that you allowed my star to be stolen by some runaway Fey child?"

"He had a Babylon candle," Weasel hurries to explain. "They escaped before I could stop them."

"A Babylon candle? They could be anywhere by now!" Pulitzer shouts. "For all we know, they could've crossed the Wall, and my star is now nothing but a useless rock."

Weasel clears his throat, visibly bracing himself for his next sentence. "I don't think they would've left Stormhold. You see, Lady Katherine was with them."

The tidal wave of magic that flares off the king is staggering. It lights up the hex marks on Crutchie's leg, and he crumples with a yelp, the sudden, explosive pain blinding him to everything else for a moment. He curls on his side, clutching the spasming muscle in his thigh and breathing heavily through his teeth to stop himself from making more noise. Snyder growls above him but is cut off by another voice.

"What are you still doing here, Mr. Snyder?" Pulitzer snaps furiously, storming across the hall. "Don't you have other business to be attending to, instead of eavesdropping on conversations that don't concern you?"

"I wasn't eavesdropping, your majesty," Snyder scrambles to cover. "I swear it. I was just on my way out, but this damned cripple is so slow."

Pulitzer narrows his eyes suspiciously. "No, you know what I think? You overheard something you shouldn't have, and now you're thinking about stealing from me. Is that it? You heard that there's a star in Stormhold and you're hoping to get your hands on it."

Snyder is nearly shaking in fear as the power of the king's fury washes over him. "I would never betray you like that. I have no intentions of looking for the star."

"Oh, look all you like," Pulitzer says, lips curling up into a mocking smirk. A pale green glow blossoms in his hand -reigniting the fire in Crutchie's leg - and he reaches out to grab Snyder's shoulder, fingers digging in like claws. "You can search from one end of the world to the other, but you will never find the star. You will not see it, hear it, or feel it, even if it's standing right in front of you."

The swirl of magic brightens, casting a sickly light over Snyder's face, and then Pulitzer draws back. He dusts his hands together like he's trying to wipe away the filth of touching the other man. "Go, Snyder, and get back to the job you've been given," the king sneers dismissively. "And hopefully you've learned your lesson about listening where you're not wanted."

Gesturing to Weasel, Pulitzer strides out of the hall, leaving Crutchie alone with Snyder. The door barely closes behind the king when Snyder wheels on Crutchie, still huddled on the floor. "You lousy, stupid crip," the warlock snarls angrily. He snatches up the abandoned crutch and swings it, striking Crutchie hard in the stomach. "Do you understand what you've ruined for me?" Every other word is punctuated by another hit, driving the breath out of Crutchie and making the pain in his leg spark again. "I'll take this out of your hide, little man."

Snyder makes a twisting gesture, and Crutchie feels the magic curl tight around his ankles, sinking in like hooks. The warlock turns and stalks out the castle doors, and the tug of magic drags Crutchie roughly across the floor behind him. He can't help himself this time; Crutchie screams.


The deck of the Brooklyn is a hive of organized chaos as soon as the sun sinks beyond the horizon. It seems like every boy knows precisely where he needs to be at every moment, crisscrossing the deck to loosen ropes and extend sails. Davey and Jack, as the designated new kids, are sent to the quarterdeck where Specs is manning the helm, if only to be out of the way of everyone else. Spot manages it all from the middle of the deck, barking orders at the boys as they clamber up and down ropes.

Once the ship is out into open water, Spot shouts for everyone to get back down to the deck. "Ties on!" the captain bellows.

"Youse gonna wanna strap in," Specs cautions, nodding toward the railing in front of the helm where several lengths of rope are hanging. Davey and Jack exchange bemused looks, and as the star glances out onto the deck, he can see that all of the pirates are preoccupied with coiling ropes around themselves. Specs talks them through looping the ropes around their waists and double-checks their knots, then moves back to the helm and wraps a rope tied to one of the spokes around his wrist.

"All counted for?" Spot yells across the deck and gets a chorus of agreements. He's got one arm tangled up in a piece of rope on the mast as he leans over the grate to the lower deck. "We's good, Finch! Whene'er youse ready!" The ship begins to vibrate ever so slightly, a low-frequency hum that resonates inside the wood and makes the hairs on Davey's arms stand on end. "Boots, JoJo, at the ready," the captain hollers, and a boy at either side of the deck waves in reply. Grinning, Spot turns toward the helm. "Ya heard 'em, Specs, let's get'er up."

"Aye aye, Cap," Specs calls back. With the arm that's not tied to the helm, he leans over and pulls back on a lever sticking up from the floorboards.

Davey yelps in surprise as the vibration picks up and the ship abruptly lurches, sending the star staggering back until the rope pulls taut around his stomach. The bow lifts, the sound of the water changing as the wood rises free. The two pirates Spot called to haul on their chains and another set of sails unfurl from the sides of the hull like wings. Just as Specs gets the lever all the way back, the wind catches in the side sails and the ship leaps skyward at a dizzying speed.

A startled laugh escapes Davey as he watches the ocean surface dropping away, the wind rushing through his hair. On the deck, other boys are whooping and shouting to each other, teasing the boys who've lost their balance and are struggling to get back on their feet. Spot stands at the center, beaming as he hangs off the main mast and tips his face up into the wind.

"Christ!" Jack says breathlessly. When Davey looks over, the boy is on one knee and seems to be having a hard time getting back up, clutching awkwardly at the railing. He's grinning though, head turned up to watch the traces of clouds that are growing ever closer.

"Warned ya ta' hold on," Specs says, laughing. He turns the helm, steering them over an updraft that propels the ship further skyward. "Youse lucky, that was a pretty smooth jump. When Finch ain't here to run the lift engines, it's a lot bumpier." They are just below cloud level now and Specs cranks the lever back the other direction slowly, the ship gradually evening out beneath them. "And we're up!" Specs shouts when the lever is back to its original position.

"Alright, boys," Spot hollers. "Back ta' ya positions and tie off the riggin'. First watch is up, rest o' ya, galley and bed. You knows the drill." The deck explodes into life again, boys untying their supports and scurrying to do their jobs. Spot prowls around the deck, keeping an eye on things.

"Hey Race," Specs calls as the curly-haired boy passes the stairs. "Show the new kids down the galley?"

Race smirks. "C'mon, boys, time ta' meet the crew." Davey follows Jack down to the main deck and they trail behind Racetrack as he clambers down the steps into the hull. There are already a half dozen boys moving up and down the corridor, all of them walking with purpose and chatting with the others that they pass. A couple cast curious glances at Jack and Davey as Race leads them into a large room at the front of the ship. The open space is filled with a jumble of mismatched tables and chairs, and a handful of boys are already making themselves comfortable.

"Buttons, getcha ass off the table!" Race says loudly. "We's gotta eat off that."

One of the boys makes a show of wiggling in his perch on the tabletop. "Ain't nobody gonna be able to eat afta lookin' at youse ugly mug anyway." An uproar of noise greets that, laughter and hooting, and Race makes a rude hand gesture at the boy on the table. "What's'is? You gots some new kids?"

"Boys, these is Jack and Davey," Race says, clapping them both on the back. "They's gonna hitch with us a bit."

One of the boys, a tall and lanky kid who's fidgeting with a slingshot, gives them an appraising look. "Welcome ta' the crew," he says and there's something knowing in his eyes that makes Davey's heartbeat ratchet up. Does he recognize them, despite Spot's assurance no one would? Does he know they're supposed to be dead? The boy's smile softens slightly and he tucks the slingshot into his belt. "Name's Finch."

"Finchy's first mate," Race supplies. "So he's like Cap. He says ya do somethin', ya do it."

"And if Racer tells ya to do anythin', hit him," Finch says, smirking. "So here's the thing; ev'rything on this ship goes in shifts. That way we's always got guys on deck, case something happens. 'Cept during a storm, then it's all hands on deck. Got it?" He waits until both of them nod in response before he continues. "Good. Since youse new, we'll figure where to stick ya tomorrow. For now, just make ya'selves comfy. Meet the guys and get a feel for the ship, yeah?"

"But don't touch nothin' if ya don' know what it is," Race adds. "That's how ya get zapped, right Blink?"

"Aw shaddup," a stocky boy with an eyepatch says as the others lean in to jostle him playfully. "Was one time."

Finch chuffs and claps both the newcomers on the shoulders. "Right, well hate to be a bumma, but I gotta lie down," he says. "Nice to meet'cha, welcome to the crew. And if any the boys give ya too much trouble, youse welcome to give 'em a soakin' so long as ya don't break nothin'." Waving a hand in reply to the various farewells being shouted at him, Finch turns and heads down the hall.

"Takin' off always wipes him," Race explains offhandedly. "He'll be back to normal in the mornin'." He steers Jack and Davey over to a table before they can say anything else, and the rest of the boys immediately launch back into their conversations.

It's difficult to keep up with everything, and David's head is spinning just from trying. For the most part, it seems like the boys are just getting caught up with each other, bringing the ones who've been off ship back up to speed on all the gossip. New boys wander in on occasion and Davey doesn't know whether it's worth remembering their names because he can't tell whether they're real names or teasing nicknames. It's chaotic and overwhelming, and if it weren't for Jack as a steady, familiar presence beside him, Davey's not sure he would've been able to handle it.

A wiry ginger abruptly scoots over from the next table, leaning forward on his elbows and smirking. "So, what brings ya fellas to the Brooklyn?"

At the next table, Race snorts loudly. "Whaddya think, stupid? Why's we all here?"

"Well, I know that," the redhead drawls sarcastically. "I meant why now? Youse obviously not from the Refuge. And it just ain't of'en we get two new fellas the same time."

Davey is wide-eyed, glancing between the ginger and Race and Jack uncertainly. Thankfully Jack looks distinctly unruffled. "Got on the wrong side a warlock," he says with a self-deprecating grin. A few of the other boys make noises of comprehension, exchanging knowing looks. "Figured he'd have a hard time followin' us up here."

"It works," chimes in a dark-haired boy beside Race. Two others hum in agreement, including the one with the eyepatch.

"How long's ya thinkin' of sticking 'round?" the ginger asks curiously.

Race rolls his eyes and leans over to smack the redhead across the back of the head. "Since when ya been a detective?" he asks glibly. "Leave 'em alone, Albert, let the poor fellas get settled in 'fore ya bother 'em to death. Spot says they's good, so they's good."

"Geez, I's just askin' a question," Albert says with a shrug. He reaches out and snatches the cigar tucked into Race's pocket.

"Hey, that's mine!" Race says, swiping for it, but Albert leans back to hold it out of his reach.

"Like ya ain't got othas," the redhead says. "Know for a fact ya stole a whole box at market."

"Yeah, but it wasn't so you could steal 'em," Race counters. He tries to grab it again but Albert stands up and bolts for the door, and Race is immediately on his tail. The boys left in the room chuckle amongst themselves and go back to what they were doing before.

The dark-haired boy comes over to Jack and David's table and grins warmly. "Don't worry 'bout them, they do that all the time," the boy says. "Name's Elmer, by the way. Ya both look tired. Anyone show youse to the bunks?" When the both shake their heads, Elmer laughs. "Figured not. I can show ya if you wanna."

Jack glances sidelong at Davey and then nods. "That'd be great, thanks," he says.

Elmer beams. "C'mon then." He leads them into the corridor, and off to one side, a large open archway leads into a room that takes up most of that side of the ship. Lanterns hang along the walls, staggered at intervals, and two rows of hammocks extend the full length of the room. Some of the hammocks are occupied, boys curled up beneath blankets or sitting up with their legs hanging off the sides. Several of them have decorations tacked to the wall above their hammocks, little bits of personalization that give Davey the impression that these are boys who stay on the ship full-time.

"Most these ones is empty, take ya pick," Elmer says once they are about halfway down the row, gesturing ahead of him. Davey steps passed him and leans experimentally against one, stumbling slightly when the fabric sways under his weight. Elmer unsuccessfully masks a snort. "They take a bitta gettin' used to," the pirate says diplomatically, "but they's nice up here. Use ta' have bunks, but then the ship hits a current or sommat and ya'd end up on the floor. Not a nice wake-up."

Jack leans against the post at the end of the hammock beside Davey's, folding his arms over his chest. "Thanks," he says. "Anythin' else we gotta know?"

"Not tonight," Elmer says with a laugh. "Get some sleep. Youse gonna have a long day tomorra, lots to learn." He claps Jack on the shoulder, nods to Davey, and then winds his way back down the row to hop onto his own hammock.

"Davey?" Jack's voice pulls his attention up and the star glances over curiously. "You good?"

David drags up a weary smile and he nods. "Just a lot to take in, you know?" he says. He holds onto the edge of the hammock and awkwardly tilts himself into it, flopping inelegantly onto his rear and nearly tipping out the opposite side. Jack lunges forward and grabs onto Davey's leg to steady him, laughing, while the star struggles into a sitting position. "Thanks," David says once he's sure he's not going to fall out.

He looks up and finds Jack standing between his splayed legs, one hand still clutching just above David's knee. Davey swallows, his throat suddenly dry, and Jack's dark eyes flick to the movement. They linger there, a tentative moment heavy with something, and then Jack abruptly steps back and lets his hand fall. "You gonna manage?" he asks, tone instantly back to teasing amusement.

"It's harder than it looks," David says, fighting a blush. He lowers his voice and adds, "Balance isn't something I've ever really had to deal with until recently."

Jack snorts, amused. "Miracle you don't fall over walkin' with them legs," he mutters and shakes his head. "Youse nothin' but limbs." He tugs off his shoes and shrugs out of his suspenders. After Jack hangs his shirtsleeves and hat on the post at the end of the hammock, he grabs the canvas and hauls himself in effortlessly. He stretches out on his back, arms folded behind his head, and shoots a pointed grin at Davey.

"Show off," David grumbles. He doesn't dare lean down to try and take his shoes off, scared of falling out onto his head, so he simply toes out of them; thankfully they are a borrowed pair of boots that are slightly too big, and they slide off easy enough. Clutching the edges, Davey twists to bring his legs up as well and grins when he manages to get straightened out without tipping. He shucks off his shirt and tosses it onto the end post, where it drapes haphazardly, and then lays down. "Nicer than the ground," he admits once he's settled.

"Far as beds go, one of the comfier I's had," Jack agrees.

Davey tucks his hands under his head, staring up at the dark ceiling of the cabin. There is a low murmur of voices from the other boys as they settle into their own beds and the scattered candles in the room send flickering gold speckles across the walls. The ship is swaying gently, coasting on the air currents, and the hammocks swing in time with it.

Even though he generally has a hard time sleeping at night, Davey finds the gentle white noise relaxing and his muscles uncoil. It doesn't take long before there are soft snores coming from the next hammock and the sound warms something in David's gut. Somehow that sound has become familiar over the last few days and it calms him. Which is, of course, the root of his problem.

Davey might be naïve about some things, but he knows that his feelings for Jack have shifted from friendly to infatuation at some point. Or maybe the infatuation was always there from the beginning, his unfamiliar human body sending him signals he didn't know how to interpret at the time. Either way, he knows what he's feeling now.

Sometimes he even thinks that maybe Jack feels it as well. They have moments like before, where he stands closer than is appropriate and something hovers between them, unspoken and electric. Jack always seems to be touching him, pulling him close or leaning into him, and Davey doesn't think he's imagining the looks he sometimes catches.

Of course, in the end, it doesn't matter what either of them does or does not feel because they have a deadline. Because as soon as they get to the Wall, Jack is going to Santa Fe and Davey is going home. No point indulging something that can only be temporary.


Jack wakes to a sickening jolt in his stomach as the entire world flips. His alarmed shout is cut off when he collides with the floor, knocking the wind out of him. Above him, he can hear laughter and his brain slots the pieces together. Groaning, he rolls over onto his back and glares up at the handful of boys standing over him. "Up an' at 'em, fellas," Race says with a shit-eating grin. Jack glances sideways and sees Davey is also in an undignified heap on the floor, blinking in confusion. "Finchy's waitin' for ya in the galley."

"A'right," Jack says, grunting as he shoves up onto his elbows. "We's comin'." The boys start to filter away and Jack promptly stretches his leg out, snagging his foot around Race's ankle. The curly-haired boy yelps as he trips into another boy, flinging arms around his neck to stay upright. "Careful, Race," Jack says, sitting up and putting on an expression of faux innocence. "Youse gonna hurt ya'self if ya don't watch where you walkin'."

Race shoots him a sarcastic look but several of the other boys grin, nodding their approval to Jack. He looks sideways and sees Davey attempting to hide his smile, and Jack's heart leaps. Trying to distract himself, he clambers out from beneath his upturned hammock and grabs his shirt. He pulls on his hat and leans against the post to wait for Davey. The star is yawning as he tugs on his shirt, shadows heavy underneath his eyes.

"You get any sleep?" Jack asks, frowning.

Davey huffs at his tangled sleeve, twisting it free before answering. "Yeah, a bit," he agrees. "Just still not used to sleeping at night, you know?"

Jack leans over and ruffles the star's already sleep-tousled hair, smirking when David half-heartedly bats him away. "Jus' be careful, wouldja? Try not ta' fall off the ship or somethin'."

"I'm not that clumsy," Davey counters, which isn't particularly convincing since he's clinging to the bedpost with one hand while the other tugs on a shoe. When Jack muffles a snicker, David shoots him an annoyed look that isn't even remotely convincing. "Shut up. Maybe I'd be able to think better if I hadn't just been dumped on my head."

"Hey, it's a good thing," Jack says. Davey straightens up, brow furrowed, and Jack slings an arm over his shoulders. "Means they like ya. S'how they let'cha know youse part of the group."

"That's ridiculous," David mutters but he's smiling softly.

They weave through the boys in the process of changing shifts, some blearily getting dressed while others are yawning as they climb into bed. The dining room is less crowded than the night before and it's easy to spot Finch sitting at a table with Specs and Albert.

"Food, if youse hungry," Finch says, gesturing at a low counter laid out with bowls of porridge. Jack and Davey both grab one before joining them at the table.

"Didja get a proper wake-up?" Albert asks, smirking.

Jack laughs. "Ain't the worst one I've had."

"Was Race's idea," Specs says. "Welcome ya ta' the crew an' all." Jack shoots a pointed look at Davey, who deliberately ignores him.

"So, plan for today is gettin' youse two caught up on how things work 'round here," Finch says. "Gonna try and teach you s'much as we can, least the basic stuff, so you can be useful when we needs ya. This time o' year, we get storms comin' least every coupa days, so we gotta have ya ready in case."

As soon as they finish shoveling down their breakfasts, Finch gives them a tour of the ship, explaining each area and its purpose in quick summaries. He also introduces them to any of the boys they pass that Jack and Davey haven't met yet, and Jack is positive that he's not going to remember most of the names. They travel across the upper and lower decks, and Finch shows them where the rigging for each set of sails is at, "but you won't have to worry 'bout them much yet, and if they do has ya help, there'll be othas here to tell ya what to pull."

Once they finish on the deck, they move back down into the hull. "Youse already seen the galley and bunks," Finch says with a casual wave of his hand. "These doors o'er here is all storage, 'cept that one to the end, that's the kitchen. Then we got this room," he says, walking backwards down the hall toward the back of the ship. "Most 'portant room on the ship, and ain't much o' nobody is allowed in usually. So don't touch nothin', got it?"

The room takes up the entire back width of the ship, a cavernous space full of sweltering heat and a faint humming. Jack feels the hairs on his arms stand on end as soon as they pass through the door. Most of the room is taken up by an enormous metal machine of some kind, a hulking middle piece surrounded by smaller chambers and covered in gauges. Braided metal wiring weaves in and out through everything, and cables the size of Jack's forearms disappear down through holes in the floorboards at intervals.

"What on earth is that?" Jack asks, awed.

"This is Dolly," says a voice from somewhere inside the machinery. A minute later, a pair of legs appears and then Racetrack wriggles out from beneath the pipes, wearing a pair of bulky work gloves and a ragged bandana tied over the lower half of his face. He sits up and tugs the bandana down, grinning. "Dolly is what keeps us flyin'."

"It's the ship's engine," Finch says. "It's also the collector for the lightning. Channels up through them wires and stores in the chambers."

"So the engine is actually powered by the lightning?" Davey asks in amazement. "That's incredible."

Race beams and pats the nearest bit of piping fondly. "She's a wonda', she is."

"He's just sayin' that 'cause he built most it," Finch intones with a smirk.

Jack glances at Race in surprise and the other boy grins cheekily. "Was just a few bits o' rust when we got 'er. Now she runs like a champ."

"Where'd you learn to do all this?" Davey asks curiously, stepping in to peer at the gauges and obviously resisting the urge to move even closer.

"Just figured it," Race says, shrugging. "Someone had ta' make it work or we weren't gonna get nowhere. So I jus' took it part and put it back togetha until I figured how it worked." He grumbles, poking at one particular gauge with an annoyed expression. "Now if I could jus' figure this lift engine so we don't gotta use Finchy, we'd be set."

Jack turns to the first mate, who shrugs offhandedly. "On'y thing the Brooklyn can't handle on 'er own is gettin' up inta the sky. Needs a good bit of magic to do it, more 'an any us can do alone. My Knack, it's hard to 'splain, but I sorta make things stronger. Usually, it works betta with otha people's Knacks, makes them more powerful. But I can work it on Dolly here too - one kid pushes their magic into it, and I make it stronger - and it gets her 'nough power to get us airborne."

"That's what you were saying last night," David says, looking down at Race. "That take-offs are exhausting for him."

"Ain't so bad as it used ta be," Finch says and bats a hand dismissively. "Firs' time, took four of us and I slept for like a week afta. Neva used my magic like that 'fore. Just took some practice. Got it down 'nough now we can do it just me and Race."

Race huffs, fidgeting with a bit of loose wire. "Right, ya showed 'em Dolly, now can ya go? One the chamba's is leakin' and I gotta get it fixed 'fore we find a storm, or we's all gonna get a bit zapped." He dismisses them with a flippant wave of his hand before crawling back under the engine, muttering to himself.

"Watch out for him when he comes out later," Finch warns when he shuts the door behind them. "He gets static in him when he's workin' like that, likes to run 'round and shock fellas."

"I can't believe he managed to figure out all of that machinery by himself," Davey says in awe. "That's a lot of work."

"Way fancier 'an any the stuff we got back home," Jack agrees.

Finch nods, leading them back toward the other end of the ship. "He can be an ass most times, but kid's ach'ly damned smart," he says, a fondness behind his smile that softens the jab. "One the few us that got a bituva education. An' afta the thing with his old man, he made it on his own for a good bit 'fore we found him." He stoops to open another hatch in the floor, revealing a set of steps that descend further into the ship's belly. "Last stop."

The lowest level is nearly pitch black, the glow from the open hatch the only light source. Finch snags a lantern from the wall and lights it, lifting it to cast a pale orange light into the room. A narrow path goes down the middle, and on either side are enormous heaps of rope, piled almost all the way to the ceiling and extending half the length of the room. "These is the lightnin' nets."

"They're massive," Davey says. "How do you get them in and out?"

"Hatches in the floor," Finch says, pointing. "Then we gots some pulleys ta' get 'em back in."

Jack leans in, a glimmer of reflective light in the ropes catching his attention. "This copper?" he asks curiously.

"Yep, wove through it all," say Finch. "Draws the lightnin' in an' carries it up those wires ya saw upstairs, straight into Dolly. Youse lucky we saw ya and tossed down a proper net 'stead of lettin' ya get caught in these things. That woulda smarted." Jack looks up, keeping his expression as neutral as he can. Davey, on the other hand, is making a poorly concealed attempt not to panic. "Relax, wouldja?" Finch says, laughing. "I's been with Spot from the start, I know how thin's work 'round here. Youse fine. So, now youse had the tour. Let's find ya some jobs."


It surprises Davey just how quickly they settle in with the crew of the Brooklyn. They spend the rest of the day rotating through chores with different pirates, who are all-too-willing to teach the newcomers how everything works. It's a full day of scaling the rigging and memorizing ropes and pulleys, learning terminology for the different parts of the ship and sails.

For a group of kids - most of whom are orphans or exiled from their homes - they're shockingly friendly and welcoming. Each of them eagerly drags the new boys into whatever they're doing, playfully teasing them as they stumble through learning so much new stuff. They are trailed the entire time by Les, who the entire crew treats with the fond exasperation of older siblings, pretending to be annoyed by his presence but always including him.

Jack, of course, has no trouble fitting in with the pirates. As far as Davey can tell, there's basically nothing that can make Jack turn off the charm. He falls into easy banter with the other boys immediately, and there seems to be some sort of camaraderie that comes from being outcast kids. Jack's in his element surrounded by these fellow orphans and forgotten children, knowing exactly what sort of stories and jokes will make the most impact with them. By lunchtime, several of the younger ones seem to adopt him as some sort of hero and none more so than Les, who Davey quickly realizes it prone to embellishing any story he hears.

At the same time, the boys adopt Davey just as much. None of them seems to care that he's sometimes awkward and hesitant in his actions, or that he doesn't always understand their jokes. When he uses a word they don't know, they just laugh and roll their eyes in amusement, like his vocabulary is just a silly quirk like Race's cigars and Buttons' fidgeting. They don't treat him any differently and David finds himself opening up more as the day goes by.

It's late afternoon before they get something like a break; Specs sits them down against the back rails, in an open spot where they can enjoy the breeze, to practice knot tying. Davey welcomes the chance to sit down for a minute, tired from running lengths of the ship all morning on top of still not sleeping well. Specs is a patient teacher, guiding them through each type of knot and its purpose. It's also the first time they find something on the ship where Davey is better than Jack.

"Wait, no, do it again," Jack says, frowning at the little length of rope in his hand like it's actively resisting him.

"Over first," Specs says as he demonstrates the motion.

"Nah, I got that," says Jack, fluttering a hand impatiently. "It's that twisty bit. What'd you do there?" Specs goes through the motion again but when Jack tries to imitate it, his knot comes undone. "Oh for cryin' out loud."

"You're bringing it through the wrong loop," Davey explains. He nods, prompting Jack to attempt the knot again. When he gets to the part that's been giving him trouble, Davey leans in and drags his hand toward the right spot. "Go through there," he says, leading him into the right loop. "Then tug."

Jack finishes threading the rope through and then pulls. His eyebrows shoot up when the knot actually holds for once, settling into the heavy twist Specs demonstrated. "Hey, I got it!" Jack says excitedly. "Davey, youse brilliant."

David shrugs, feeling heat crawl up the back of his neck. "It's easy once you figure out the patterns," he says self-consciously. Jack doesn't respond, busy picking apart the knot to try it again. He is slow and deliberate in the movement, but he succeeds and his grin is blinding. "See, you've got it."

"Don't worry, lots of the guys ain't good at knots when they started," Specs says. "Just gotta practice. Took Mush ages ta' figure it out, couldn't trust him with nothin' for like the first year. Almost dropped a lightning chamba on Race once 'cause his knot was bad. S'how he got his name, 'cause he almost mushed him flat."

Methodically untying and retying his knot, Jack howls with laughter. Davey smiles, shaking his head, and he feels the question finally bubble up. "Mush?" he echoes in amusement. "Okay, I've got to ask; the nicknames?"

Specs chuckles, coiling the bit of rope around into another knot. "Yeah, I ain't surprised," he says. "Ev'ryone does soona or later - No, ya gotta go 'round the top, yeah, like that. Anyway, the names, it's just sorta part of the life, bein' a Fey. See, ya got three kindsa kids on this ship, mostly. First kind is ones like Racer and Dutchy, what had names but picked new ones when they got away from they families and such. Second, ya got the ones like me that just neva had a name 'fore."

David looks up, frowning. Specs seems entirely casual about the remark, and even Jack doesn't seem all that surprised by the comment. He catches Davey's expression and shrugs. "Happened back at the orphanage too," says Jack. "Get kids dropped off without names. The home'd give 'em one, but if the kid didn't like it, he'd just pick a dif'rent one."

"Makes ya feel important, giving ya'self a name," Specs says, nodding. "Like ya matta enough to be called somethin'. Lots us Fey kids, we ended up away from our families 'fore we was old enough to know our names. Me, I was in the Refuge by four. Warlocks and the Bulls, they couldn't be bothered ta' name us, so we named each otha. Usually was things that made ya dif'rent from the otha kids, things that stuck out."

"Like wearing glasses," Jack guesses.

Specs grins and nudges his glasses back into place. "Right. That's how ya get ones like me and Blink and Boots. Then ya got ones like Sniper and Romeo, those come from they Knacks."

"But not everyone has names like that," Davey points out. "Some of you have normal names."

"Them's the third kinda kid," Specs says. "The one's that still got family out there somewhere, or least ones that care. Albert and Henry, they got folks that snuck 'em off before the Bulls could find 'em. And Elmer, he's got his ma and sista's. His old man ran him off when they found out he was Fey, but I know he sneaks back ev'ry few months to see the girls if he can."

"Les?" Jack asks, tone hesitant like he's afraid to hear the answer.

Specs laughs, fiddling with the strip of rope that he's knotted into an elaborate loop. "He'll pro'lly get a nickname 'ventually. Ain't really been with us long enough. He's a proper stowaway. Guess his parents was tryna get him outta Stormhold 'fore the Bulls got him. There was a bituva toss up at the docks and they tell him to hide. Nutty kid decides the best place to hide is inside a pirate ship." He snorts, shaking his head. "Kid was on the ship almost three months 'fore we found him. Was usin' his Knack to keep hid and sneakin' food when we was sleepin'. Thought we had a rat problem, was makin' Spot crazy."

Jack chuckles appreciatively and Davey feels himself naturally echoing the expression; he can't help but find the brotherly relationship forming between Jack and the youngest crew member incredibly sweet.

"So I get Specs and Race and all," Jack says thoughtfully. "But what's the deal with Spot? Ain't exactly a fierce pirate name."

"Which is why we on'y call him Spot on the ship," Specs says, but he's smiling too. "Sorry, but I ain't tellin' that one. That's Spot's business. You wanna know, ask him."

Jack glances toward the helm, where Spot is leaning on the wheel and surveying the horizon of clouds with a narrowed gaze, and for a moment, Davey thinks he's actually going to do it. Then Jack shrugs and nudges Specs with his foot. "Show me that last one again."


The lightning storm rolls up on them in the middle of their third night. As soon as the first clap of thunder sounds, everyone on the Brooklyn whirs into action. Every crew member has assigned tasks during a storm netting, and that now includes Jack and Davey. They catch the rain slickers Elmer tosses at them and pull them on as they charge up to the deck.

It's only lightly raining at the moment, the Brooklyn still coasting along the outer edge of the storm, and Jack stops short for a moment to stare at the sky. Billowing towers of thick gray clouds form entire mountain ranges ahead of them, shifting and morphing like ocean waves. Everything is blurred around the edges by the sheets of rain, except for when enormous bolts of lightning fracture through the clouds and turn the world to pure white.

"Gonna want these," Albert says as he presses a pair of goggles into Jack's hands. "C'mon, new kid, gotta get them nets out." Jack spares a glance over his shoulder for Davey, only to see that the star has already been dragged off by someone else. Tugging on the goggles, Jack chases Albert across the deck.

The series of openings along the side rails that would hold cannons in a normal pirate ship have been repurposed into a complicated weave of pulleys. Jack has spent the last two days learning what each segment of rope is attached to and what exact order they need to be moved to get the nets out properly. He falls into line between Albert and Boots, grabbing hold of the rope and waiting for the signal.

"Alright, fellas, on my count!" Spot bellows from his typical place near the mast. He looks to both sides, making sure both lines are ready, then holds up a hand. "Three, two, one, pull!"

Jack hauls back along with the others and the ship lurches beneath them as the bottom opens up. Another set of ropes releases the cables holding the nets in place, and the ship drops for a moment as the enormous nets fall free. Amazed, Jack clutches the railing and watches as the two nets, both larger than the main deck, unfurl into the sky behind the ship like a billowing pair of angel's wings.

"Rail nets, now!" Spot yells and it pushes Jack back into motion. The pirates all race up and down the length of the ship, tugging free the knots that hold the smaller wire nets that roll down to drape over the sides of the ship. Rain is lashing hard and violent against the deck now, making the boards slippery, and the storm rocks the ship violently. More than once, Jack stumbles and has to grab onto a rail or rope to stay standing.

"Nets is all down, Cap," Albert shouts.

Spot nods, in the process of loosening one of the ropes around the mast. "Get them sails up," he says and hurries over to join two other boys as they start on the pulleys that control the sails. "Or we's gonna be through this storm faster 'an Dutchy with a skirt." Dutchy's response is lost beneath the rush of the wind, but Jack sees the taller boy pause in pulling ropes just long enough to smack the captain around the back of the head. Spot's teeth flash white under the lightning as he grins, a dangerous, cavalier look.

"Jack, a hand!" Finch yells and Jack scrambles over to help the first mate with his rope. While he's got a second where he's mostly holding still, Jack scans the deck until he finally finds Davey again, helping Specs to lash down the extra lightning chambers to the collector at the mast. Then the ship bounces over a cloud current and Jack staggers forward into Finch's back before he can catch himself.

Another flash of lightning, the closest one yet, illuminates the ship. Jack looks up and his stomach leaps; the landscape has only gotten more wild and treacherous, swells and curls of clouds being speared by razor-sharp lightning bolts. It sinks in, at that moment, that they are heading into that, and his self-preservation instincts flare in horror. They are not only sailing into the middle of a tempest but they are going with the intention of being struck by lightning - repeatedly.

"Okay, boys, take ya posts and at the ready!" Spot roars, coiling one of the loose ropes from the mast around his forearm and bracing himself. "Time to net some lightnin'!"

Jack finds a hold in the rigging in between Finch and Buttons, wrapping the rope around his hand so tightly it almost hurts. "Get ready, new kid," Buttons says, smirking. "It's a wild ride."

The ship tosses and lurches as it's buffeted through the maelstrom, boys whooping and cheering as they are knocked sideways into each other. Sniper is at the helm, guiding them as best as he can into the thickest sections of clouds, chasing the lightning. The nets behind the ship are crackling with white sparks, scraping electricity out of the clouds as they pass through and funneling it down into the engine room.

A bolt strikes the mast and the explosion of thunder that follows is so strong Jack actually feels it, a physical blow to his chest that makes his heart freeze up for a moment. White light shoots down the interwoven metal cables that are strung the length of the mast and into the collector, a heavy device that clips to the top of lightning canisters. It's awkward and unwieldy, and moving the connector is dangerous, but it's also apparently where they get the highest-grade lightning.

Jack can't hear any of the others celebrating but he can see it, the flashes of smiles in the darkness and hands raised in triumph. The energy is contagious and Jack finds himself getting pulled into it. Each time another bolt hits the mast or rigging and fills another canister, he whoops excitedly along with the others.

Spot is in the process of switching the connector from one canister to another when a bolt of lightning sparks down unexpectedly. The force of it throws Spot back halfway across the deck and the connector thuds against the ground, crackling as the lightning spits out with nowhere safe to go. Jack reacts without thinking, letting go of the rail and sprinting to the mast. The thick neck of the connector is slippery in his hands and the power of the lightning knocks him over but he clings on and manages to crawl back up to the canisters.

Just as Jack is attempting to force the connector onto an empty canister, struggling to control the force of the storm, a second set of hands appear - tinted with a vaguely golden glow - and they get the connector clicked into place. Gasping for breath, Jack leans against the mast, but he looks up at a laugh. Spot is standing next to him, bracing his hands on his knees, and he's got what's probably the first real smile Jack's ever seen on his face.

And just like the rest of it, the humor is contagious, and Jack is laughing as he grabs onto a new hold beside the captain.

The rest of the night goes by without any more crazy interruptions, a steady collecting of lightning until the ship reaches the far side of the storm. Here, the clouds are tinged a murky green around the edges and the rain has slowed to a steady drizzle. The mood is buoyant when Spot declares that they are finished for the night and Jack joins the crew to put away the nets.

Stowing away everything takes far more time than spreading it all out does, and it's well into the morning by the time the nets have all been tied back into place and the filled canisters carted down into the engine room with the others. Jack is damp and shivering despite the rain slicker, and his muscles ache like the way they do after a full day's shift at the warehouse, but he's so full of adrenaline he can't even think about going to sleep.

"C'mon," Finch says, clapping him on the shoulder. "Gotta meet the othas in the galley."

"Why?" Jack asks, curious, as the first mate steers him toward the other end of the ship. The rest of the crew seems to be heading in the same direction, shucking off their slickers and chatting excitedly.

"Tradition," is all the answer he gets from Finch. They reach the galley and it's more crowded than Jack's ever seen it, nearly every member of the Brooklyn crew stuffed into the room. Boys are sitting on chairs and tables and even the floor, lounging against each other, laughing and jostling.

"Jack." Davey's voice jars him and Jack looks over, determinedly ignoring the way something in his chest leaps at the sound. The star looks just as pathetic as the rest of them, clothes damp in patches and hair clinging to his forehead, and the cold has made his nose and cheeks bright red. Still, it isn't until he's standing directly beside Jack that David smiles.

"That was somethin', huh?" Jack says.

"That was terrifying," Davey answers and then grins. "And also incredible." Jack laughs and throws an arm around the star's shoulders, dragging him over to find an open patch of floor to sit. They flop down into a space against the wall, behind where Buttons and Mush are having an animated conversation.

"Good take, fellas." The interruption comes in the form of Spot, Race on his tail and carrying a small wooden crate. He sets the box on the largest of the tables, shoving Henry out of the way to make room. "Almost got a full load," Spot continues. "Filled all but two canisters."

"Pro'lly woulda got them two too if someone hadn't dropped the connector mid-strike," Finch faux-whispers, shooting a significant glance at Spot.

"Wait, he did what?" asks Race, who was below deck keeping an eye on the ship's engine the whole time. A gleeful smile takes over his face as he knocks his shoulder against Spot's. The captain shoves him away and makes a rude hand gesture at Finch.

"Ya shoulda seen it," Finch says, propping his elbows on his knees. "Strike comes down and knocks Spot all way 'cross the deck, right on his ass. Then Jack there just flies in outta nowhere and grabs the thing - no magic or nothin', just bare hands - lightnin' still sparkin' out the whole time and throwing him all o'er the place."

Albert howls with laughter. "Looked like he was on some buckin' horse, like a wild west cowboy."

"Was a good save," Spot interjects gruffly. He wedges his knife into the lid of the crate, prying it up, and he pulls a large bottle of amber liquid from inside. "Coulda lost a lot more if ya didn' get it so fast, even if it was dumb grabbin' it like that. So cheers, Cowboy." He pulls the cap off the bottle, takes a large swig, and then passes it directly to Jack.

Jack smirks acerbically at the nickname but he raises the bottle. "Cheers, Cap." He takes a drink, savoring the taste as he swallows. Jack hasn't had liquor very many times, only the occasional shared drink with a dock worker or stagehand who was feeling generous, but he can tell this is decent stuff. It's strong and rich, a burnt honey flavor clinging to the back of his tongue as the whiskey burns a trail down to his stomach, easing away some of the lingering chill.

"So what'd ya think of youse first storm-netting?" Race asks as he and Spot pass out the rest of the bottles from the crate.

"Mortifying, but exhilarating," says Davey, accepting the bottle Jack hands him. He sniffs it uncertainly before taking a sip, and then his eyes go wide as he struggles not to cough. Several of the boys laugh and Jack pats him lightly on the back while David recovers his breathing.

"I dunno 'bout what he said," Jack adds, "but that was a rush."

Finch grins and toasts them with the bottle he's just stolen out of Albert's hands. "Knew ya'd fit in good."

The room dissolves back into playful chat, boys teasing and exchanging stories as they pass the half dozen bottles between them all. Jack leans back against the wall, shoulder pressed against Davey's, as they share their bottle with Buttons, Mush, and Elmer. The liquor chases away the cold and a comforting heat settles through his entire body. David is equally relaxed, slumping against the curve of the wall with his head on Jack's shoulder.

"Hey Jacky," David says after nearly an hour, his voice soft and slightly slurred. Jack fights back his smile as he hums, prompting him on. "You scared me when you did that thing, jumping on that lightning," the star admits. "Don't - it was good, but just - be careful?"

And the warmth that surges through Jack this time has absolutely nothing to do with the liquor. "Yeah, okay, Davey," he says. "I'll be careful." He glances sideways at the slumped star and chuckles. "Now gimme that bottle or youse gonna really hate ya'self tomorra."