A tall figure appeared in the doorway. The stucco rooves of Granchia glinted behind him, and moonlight beamed around the edges of his armor: the black boots, the fine linen gloves, the patches of void in his gilded mask. He placed a stack of parchment on his desk and shut the door. It was Kane.
"Well, well. What was a simple fusilier doing in Marco Pollo's tomb?"
The pirate froze, clutching their mask in their teeth. It was a bauta, like the other clockworks', but where the mask's mouth had attached to the soldier's body, there was a simple bit to be clenched between the teeth.
Far-away stars glinted through the porthole above Kane's shoulder, and behind the expensive Valencian glass was the Chapel, wherein lay Marco Pollo's tomb. There was not enough armor to outfit their entire company. The pirate had ventured in alone – foolishly – to seek his map to El Dorado – only to come face-to-face with Kane, the leader of the Valencian Armada.
"When I summon you to my chambers, I expect the utmost deference. I expect you to answer my questions immediately. You are a perfect soldier, are you not?"
He took a step forward. "State your name and rank."
The pirate's eyes flickered to the hilt of his rapier, where they saw their disguised body reflected. The armada bicorne lay wrinkled above their hair, and their chassis was thrust out in the manner of the other soldiers they had observed, rising and falling slightly with their breath. If he came any closer, surely he would see the imperfections in their disguise. Their fingers itched for the blunderbusses, but they remained resolute, staring defiantly forward.
Kane strode the length of the captain's quarters like it was nothing. The pirate's heartbeat pounded. He grabbed the edge of their mask, feeling along the rim, observing the make with the pad of his thumb.
When he reached the eyehole, he cocked his head ever so slightly to the side. The pirate's stood stock still; they were acutely aware of the warmth of his motor, the closeness of his body, the toe of his boot situated just between their own feet.
"Soldier," he repeated, "State your name and rank."
The pirate remained silent. Without warning, Kane gripped the bottom of the mask and tugged upward – the pirate clenched their jaw as hard as they could as the back of their head hit the wall behind them, and they stood, straining, sweating, on the tips of their boots.
The pirate felt the empty holes in Kane's mask boring into their eyes. His fingers clenched against their skin. In a fearful trance, the pirate remembered Steed's advice not to get near any armada soldiers, for their disguise wouldn't hold up to close scrutiny. As if reading their mind, a whirr of air escaped from where Kane's mouth should have been, and as the pirate's hands jerked towards their weapons, and Kane grabbed their wrists.
"As I suspected," he said, in a tone of cold amusement, "your speech synthesis core is faulty, and the windpipe gears have been relocated to the lower abdominal plate. Did you put yourself back together after that Pirate got you?"
Heart in their throat, the pirate looked around the room feverishly for a method of escape. An ornate desk and chair lounged in the corner closest to them, and atop it a candle – along with the piece of Marco Pollo's map. The pirate was acutely aware of their map piece concealed on their person; if they could get that portion, they would have the Armada two-to-zero. If only their hands were free – then they could knock that candle over to create a distraction …
"No matter," Kane released the pirate's mask. "We need another deckhand, and I have enough time on my hands to recalibrate a simple speech core."
Keeping a firm grip on the pirate's hands, Kane lifted up his right hand and slowly removed his linen glove. The pirate stared at the now-bare metal, eyes wide with panic – "recalibrate"?
Before they could react, his hand slid along the plate just above the pirate's navel. The pirate stiffened; the vibrations of the gears under their chassis it did little to conceal their ragged breathing. Ignoring the closeness of his mask, they concentrated on sliding their hands out of Kane's grasp, easing their right hand out of his glove bit-by-bit until their palm was freed. His fingertips clacked gently on the pirate's belt.
Mask bent towards them, the pirate could smell the oil and hear the cogs whirring in Kane's body. He undid the buckle slowly; the pirate got the sickening feeling that he was toying with them.
No matter. As Kane removed the belt, the pirate freed their right hand. They reached for the candle, feeling their forehead dampen with sweat.
"Ghk –!" the pirate bit down on a cry.
"What have we here?" said Kane, a sadistic glint in his sockets. He repeated that curling motion with his fingers and watched the pirate pound their fist on the wall. "It seems your speech core was functioning after all."
He stood up, his lapel brushing against the pirate, chest rising and falling in a synthesized chuckle. As his fingers manipulated them with increasing ardor, the pirate threw their head from side to side, rattling the cabin. Marco Pollo's map was long forgotten. The toe of Kane's boot, once pointing innocently toward the pirate's feet, was now placed firmly between their heels, with his knee situated dangerously against the wall between their legs.
The pirate shook with fear and arousal. How could this be happening? Kane himself, the leader of the Armada, more perfect than any living creature, had them in a most compromising position. And his fingers' certainly fit that description.
No! As though in a trance, the pirate fought through the haze. They punched the aiguillette on his chest over and over; they thrashed with their legs and waist! Kane's body only locked momentarily when the vibrating gears on the pirate's chassis collided with the space between his hips.
Without warning, he slammed the pirate's wrist against the wall, their masks clacking together as his hips ground and ground. The scarf covering his waist might as well have been nothing with how close the two were, his hips sliding against the pirate's, not-so-coincidentally finding the spot where the pirate's chassis held the vibrating gears. Steam escaped from his body, and the whirring of gears and pistons grew louder and louder. The gaps in his mask were hungry voids.
As the pirate neared the edge, the bit of the mask slid from their mouth, clattering on the floor. Kane's fingers twisted and moved, and his hips swayed and slid, until each of them released a cry – the pirate, a concealed groan, and Kane, a growl from the depths of his chest. Sparks flew from his body; his head stiffened and fell to the side with a hiss of steam.
The pirate's irregular breathing calmed, their eyes closed, head tilted back, bicorne askew on their head. Kane restarted with a jolt. For a moment, Kane looked at their rosy face. Silently. Thoughtfully. Then, he looked down at himself, wrinkled and damp with oil.
"Imperfect," he breathed.
He released their wrist, and the pirate dropped unceremoniously to the ground.
"Go," he said, as the pirate fumbled with their belt. He pointed his still-slick hand towards the cabin door.
"Go," he roared, glaring at their face and the mask disdainfully, "now that you've shredded any hope of plausible deniability."
The pirate put their mask back on and ran toward the exit, bumping into the frame with their shoulder on the way out.
Kane wiped his hand on his kerchief and glared down at the floor. The door didn't slam shut.
He sighed. "Pirate."
The pirate looked at them from just beyond the exit. He put the glove back on his hand, not facing them.
"I … look forward to our future meeting."