"You know," Sheason muttered aloud as he sat in his musty jail cell, "I think I'm finally over my home sickness."
Sheason had been running with the crew of the Onyx Pike for the last few months, and it had been a whirlwind of adventure and drunken larking about on the high seas. Even when they had parted ways with Vanessa and Sheason had paid off the money he owed to Davira, he stayed on, because it was just so much fun... for the most part. Nevermind that his debt to Davira was for more than just money, but that wasn't really the point. For the first time in years, Sheason felt like he was genuinely enjoying himself.
But he just couldn't leave well enough alone.
Ever since their first encounter with the ship crewed by Old God corrupted Tidesages, the crew started to run afoul of even more of them. As the days wore on, Tidesage ships became a worryingly frequent occurrence... and that wasn't the only problem. Every day, more Naga would appear from beneath the waves, in numbers that hadn't been seen since the Cataclysm. And if that wasn't enough, they also had to deal with rogue Zandalari ships; sometimes, they had been obviously stolen and were crewed by those blood trolls from Nazmir, and sometimes crewed by both trolls... and Mogu. That was a bit of a surprise, if only because he hadn't thought about the Mogu since The Magical Adventures In Panda Land™.
Either way, it didn't take long for Sheason to put all these pieces together to figure out that the Old Gods were planning something, and whatever it was, it was big. It made sense, after all; with the Legion defeated and Sargeras imprisoned by both Illidan and the Titans, the biggest threats to their power were either gone or preoccupied. Not to mention, the Alliance and Horde were still so dead set on killing each other with that utterly pointless pissing contest of a faction war, they probably hadn't even noticed that any this was going on.
In other words, the world was poised – yet again – on the brink of an apocalyptic disaster, and nobody seemed to care, because this shit happens every other Tuesday on Azeroth. Still, Sheason figured, something needed to be done. He may have been running with a pirate crew, but he still had a conscience. He might as well do it himself.
Every night, he would slip away from the Onyx Pike using his teleport circuit, and hunt down the servants of the Old Gods. He needed to figure out what they were up to (beyond simply "something big"), and sabotage it however he could. An old friend of still in the Uncrowned gave him some advice on where to start: "Follow the Azerite." And that, as it happened, led him to the Ashvane Company.
Things for Sheason settled into a bit of a routine... and, of course, that is exactly why everything went wrong. He got complacent, and it made him sloppy.
He reflected on all of this as he sat on the edge of his filthy cot, in a cell buried deep in the bowels of Tol Dagor. He was down to a pair of shorts and a dirty second-hand shirt, as the corrupt wardens had stripped him of all his gear and weapons. Sure, he'd been in tighter spots than this before... just not recently.
"How the fuck am I gonna get out of this one?" he sighed heavily. He scanned the interior of his 10 by 10 box for the thousandth time. All he had to do: get out of his cell, find his gear, and assassinate the warden. Preferably, in that order. Then he'd be home free. But for all the enhancements he picked up in his time away from Azeroth – his cybernetics, his vat-grown organs and limbs, his augmented senses – none of it meant a damn thing, because he couldn't punch through ten feet of stone or break iron bars. There was a trick, but he'd need a wet towel and a lot of time for that...
Suddenly, he heard raised voices and a commotion echoing from somewhere in the distance. Was that a riot? He could work with a riot. In a flash, Sheason was off the cot and into the shadows, waiting for the inevitable chaos to get to him. Sure, it was kind of a longshot, but he didn't exactly have a lot of options at this point.
Then the sounds changed. The shouting changed from angry to terrified. And... that was the sound of explosions, wasn't it? Without warning, a body flew past the cell door. It was flying through the air, several feet off the ground, and it was travelling at considerable speed. Sheason was momentarily confused, and then:
"Typical," a silky smooth female voice wafted through the air. "I leave you alone for a few months, and you can't help but get yourself in some kind of trouble." Sheason stepped out of the shadows and approached the bars of his cell to get a look at the owner of the voice, despite knowing damn well who it was.
Tuera walked into view, calm as anything. Her outfit was a futuristic blend of colorful abstract shapes that hugged her figure; a stark contrast to the damp, wet, utilitarian stone and rusty iron bars all around. Her skin, her necklace, her earrings, and all her jewel-encrusted rings seemed to glow, despite there being no light source to explain it. She was also wearing a pair of oversized sunglasses, and in one of her hands was a plastic Starbucks cup filled with bubble tea. She stared at Sheason for a few seconds, loudly sipping her drink through the straw with pursed lips.
Sheason braced himself for what he thought was the inevitable mockery.
"So... how've you been?" Tuera said with a broad, smug smile.
"Gonna be honest," Sheason leaned forward, grabbing the bars. "Things have been better. Come to gloat?"
"Not at all!" she said. With a wave, the drink in her hand disappeared with a pop. "I was just doing a bit of shopping on Ursa Minor Beta, and I thought to myself 'I wonder what Sheason's been doing since I've been on holiday?' And, to my utter bewilderment, I find you – oh, hang on." She turned to her left, raised her hand, and snapped her fingers. The far end of the corridor burst into an inferno of green flames, and the guards caught in the blast screamed. Tuera turned back to Sheason as if nothing had happened. "Anyway, I find you here. What happened?"
"Eh, s'my own damn fault, really. I got careless, and let myself get too cocky..." Sheason muttered, sheepishly. He paused, furrowing his brow. "Wait, how did you find me, anyway?" Tuera shrugged.
"You left that forwarding number to your teleport circuit."
"That -" doesn't make sense, he wanted to say. Instead, he merely sighed and shook his head. "Look, never mind. Can you help me out here? I'm in a bit of a situation."
"Sure, then you can tell me all about how you went and embarrassed yourself this time," she said with a wicked grin. She momentarily studied the cell door, and gave Sheason a "shoo!" motion. "You might want to back up."
Sheason stepped as far away from the door as he could and flattened himself against the nearby wall. Tuera flicked her hand, and a lick of green flame shot out, scampering up and down the iron bars. The hinges and the lock started to glow briefly before vomiting sparks – and then the door exploded off the hinges, smashing into the far wall, and turning the bed into a pile of splinters.
"Ready to go?" Tuera asked, standing in the empty – and still smoking – doorframe. Sheason just chuckled and shook his head.
"You are just so fucking Extra," Sheason said. "You do know that, right?"
"That's just part of my aesthetic, darling," she said with a laugh. "Admit it: you've missed me!"
"So, the Old Gods are back, are they? How exciting!" Tuera exclaimed from her dainty perch on the edge of the ex-warden's desk. Sheason, meanwhile, was busy inspecting and refitting all of his gear; it was a considerable amount of armor, weapons, and gadgets he had to take stock of, so it was taking quite some time for him to get it all sorted.
Sheason's original plan was to sneak here, but because Tuera never went anywhere silently, that hadn't really been necessary.
"Yeah, it's a whole stupid mess," Sheason sighed, tumbling one of his throwing knives across his knuckles.
"So, why even get involved? It's not really your problem, is it?" Tuera asked. Sheason shrugged.
"Well, I mean, it kind of is. For as much time as I've spent away, Azeroth is my home, and I'm gonna take it a little personal if some eldritch being of chaos turns it inside out. Besides, it's not like I can count on anyone else to fix this..." Sheason trailed off just as Tuera started laughing raucously. "What? What's the matter?"
"I told you!" Tuera mocked in a sing-song voice. "I told you this when we went to go hunt my father, remember? You like to pretend you're this big gruff, cynical, world-weary, anti-hero jackass archetype, but deep down?" She prodded the center of his chest. "We both know that you're a Good Man. When push comes to shove, you always try to do the right thing."
"Well... okay, maybe, but-"
"But nothing," Tuera interrupted him. "It's so sickeningly earnest of you, it makes me want to vomit."
"Look, as far as I can tell, nobody else is gonna do anything, alright?" Sheason leaned forward on the desk. "Especially not with this stupid faction war. Greymane and Sylvanas aren't going to stop this nonsense until the both of them are six feet under." Tuera chuckled to herself at that.
"I swear, that old wolf must have the world's worst handicap, getting into a dick-measuring contest with a woman." Even Sheason couldn't help but laugh, but he quickly tried to compose himself.
"Okay, look, enough about me, alright?" he said, returning to his gear. "What have you been up to? I haven't seen you since you atomized Venthrax. You up and disappeared on me without a word."
Tuera bristled, and suddenly shifted uncomfortably on the edge of the desk. Sheason furrowed his brow; this wasn't like her.
"Oh... well... you know," she stammered out, adjusting her sunglasses and trying desperately to regain her composure. "I just... I needed a bit of time on my own, you know? I had a lot to work through! I'd been dealing with a lot of those issues for literal decades, so I just... I needed some time alone to get my head straight." Suddenly, her face lit up and she snapped her fingers. "Oh! Speaking of heads, I found Phyacair! I know we both thought he went down with that exploding moon, to buy us time to escape, but he survived! Or... at least, his head survived. I've been meaning to grow him a new body, but I've been a bit distracted with a whole bunch of new projects keeping me occupied."
"Projects?" Sheason narrowed his eyes with suspicion, but Tuera quickly waved him off.
"Oh no, don't worry, it's nothing like you're imagining. Like I said before, I'm well past that 'supervillain' phase, especially now that the Old Man is dead. I'm actually making an honest living now!" Tuera smiled broadly from behind her sunglasses; she was genuinely beaming.
"An honest living, huh?" Sheason shrugged. "I'm not really in a position to say anything, I've been running with a pirate crew."
"I'm sure you'll mock, but I decided that I need to express myself more. To that end, I've been keeping myself busy with a number of artistic endeavors. I've tried my hand at modeling, some photography, a bit of painting, I DJ a club every other weekend or so, there's that record deal I just signed... Plus my agent is in talks for getting me the lead in 'Breakthrough Echoes,' Xenthar's new Space Opera..."
"Wait, back up," Sheason held up a hand as he interrupted her. "Record deal? I didn't know you could sing."
"Why, of course I can sing! I am a woman of manifold and diverse talents. Actually, hang on..." She flicked the gem in one of her earrings, and it began to glow. "Let me give my agent a quick call, I can have him send over a copy of my album, you can judge for yourself."
"Uh..." Sheason chuckled, shaking his head. "I'm good, thanks."
"Are you sure?" Tuera asked. Sheason looked around, and gestured at the blood-stained walls of the warden's office.
"Uh... I don't know if you've noticed, but we're kind of in the middle of a thing, y'know? I mean, where am I gonna put it? Next to my smoke bombs?" Sheason grabbed the last dagger on the table – Black Menace – and sheathed it on his hip before adding: "Tell you what. If this Old God business gets sorted out, I'll come visit you out in space and I'll buy this album of yours."
"Why wait?" Tuera asked without missing a beat. "I mean... let's be honest. It's Azeroth. This planet is fucked; it'll always be in danger. If it's not a planet-ending catastrophe, it's a massive world war where thousands die and everybody loses. This isn't going to stop, so why even care? And besides, I just know you still have that spaceship, safely tucked away somewhere. You were too protective of that thing when I was onboard..." She paused, getting up off the table to face him. "You've got a way off this doomed rock, and no real attachments, so... you could just leave. Try and enjoy yourself for once in your life, you know?"
The room was filled with silence for an uncomfortable amount of time. He didn't say it out loud... but he was seriously considering her offer. He could just leave. After all... he was kind of getting sick of all this...
"Maybe you're right..." he grunted out eventually. "But I... Nah." He shook his head and smiled at her. "I can't leave. Not yet. I've got to give it my best shot, you know? I won't be satisfied with myself, otherwise."
Tuera almost looked momentarily disappointed. She raised a hand and snapped her fingers; a dark, shadowy portal opened up behind her, swirling and breathing purple smoke around her feet.
"Do what you've got to do." She turned to leave, but stopped halfway and looked at him over her shoulder. "If you ever change your mind, you've got my number." She winked one last time before stepping into the portal. It collapsed shut behind her with a pop.
Somewhere in the seas just south of Kul Tiras, Captain Davira Smythe was pacing on the deck of the Onyx Pike. One of the hatches near her feet slammed open, and a pair of blood-red pigtails emerged.
"Ye found 'im yet, Lightbrass?" Dav asked the owner of the pigtails.
"I've gone through the ship stem to stern, Cap'n," the gnome said, hopping up onto the deck. "I can't find a single trace of him."
"Oh, where'n th' hell is that bloody fookin' cunt?" Dav growled to herself.
"Well, he is a spy." Lightbrass said with a shrug. "If he doesn't want to be found, he's not gonna be found." Davira let out a heavy sigh and shook her head.
"Nev'rmind. Back t'yer post."
"Aye, Cap'n," Lightbrass gave a curt nod, and pulled a small grappling gun out of her vest. She fired it at the crows nest, and rocketed into the air. Davira, meanwhile, continued to grumble and growl, obviously frustrated.
"Talking about me behind my back, huh?" Sheason asked. Dav was so shocked at the unexpected sound that she simultaneously yelped, jumped, transformed into her worgen form, and drew both cutlasses at once. Sheason, meanwhile, simply stood there with a subtle smirk behind his beard, completely unfazed. Dav stared at him, boggle-eyed, for a second or two before baring her fangs.
"Y-YOU! Where'n th' hell have you been?!" she snarled angrily, sheathing her swords.
"I had to take care of a few errands," he said. "Ran into an old friend, and it took longer than expected."
"Ye been gone fer three days!" Dav shouted.
"Have I?" Sheason asked, walking past her. "Yeah, there weren't many clocks in Tol Dagor." Dav started to follow, but stopped short as a look of confusion, once again, fell across her face.
"... the... prison? Th' hell were y'doin' there?"
"I'll explain later. First things first though," he turned on his heels and gave her a lazy salute. "Permission to get some rum, Captain? I am dyin' of thirst over here..."