Rayman © UbiSoft Entertainment. You'll have to deal with me regarding the rest.
Parts 3&4 of this chapter to follow.

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Chapter 12: Quest, Part 2

"Read your palm?" Somebody had been saying that for a while.

Dredged up at last from the stifling depths of his thoughts, Piranha turned in his chair to see a man standing behind him. It was no pirate, therefore a slave – an ancient, wizened figure in rough dirty grey robes, with papery skin, a scant frizz of white hair, and skeleton-thin cheeks grizzled with a week's coarse, bristly grey beard. Not very tall to begin with, he was so shrunken and bent with age that his intense though watery stare was right at Piranha's eye level.

"What did you say?" Piranha said.

The old man stretched out a pallid, blotchy, bony hand on a long skinny arm, groping rather creepily towards Piranha's face. He didn't smell any too good, either. "Tell your fortune, young fella? Read your palm?"

Piranha rolled his eyes. "Don't bother me, old man. Go about your business."

The old slave chuckled. "That is my business, you greenhorn. Let me read your palm."

Piranha got out of his chair. If anything, he was a fraction taller than the old slave. "Look, friend, I don't know what you're up to, but I'm in no mood to be pestered. Take off."

The old man's faded grey eyes peered avidly at Piranha's jacket and a few of the daggers, stuck into his vest underneath, whose handles were just barely visible. "My, aren't you well armed? Expecting trouble, young fella?"

"Maybe you haven't noticed this is a pirate ship?"

The old slave chuckled again. "That's right. And I'm the pirate soothsayer."

Piranha's forehead wrinkled. "Fortuneteller, eh? Well, here's a prediction for you. Severe storm warnings. Volcanic eruption possible. Exercise extreme caution! Now beat it before I find myself doing something to an old man I'd later regret."

The slave didn't budge. His red-rimmed eyes stared directly into Piranha's with a touch of what must have been either mischief or insanity. "You a violent fella? That's all to the good. Let me read your palm, it won't cost you much."

"Cost? You want me to pay for the privilege of being annoyed by you?" Numb with disgust and weariness, still in the grip of his dismal thoughts, Piranha started to turn away.

"Oh, it's an easy price. I just want you to kill me. With one of those lovely daggers. Or a gun would be fine."

"You wacko," Piranha snorted. He began to walk away, but felt those spidery fingers clutch the back of his coat. Fiercely he swept around, yanking his jacket out of the old man's hands. "Are you deaf? Get away from me!"

"What's the matter, don't want to get your knives dirty?"

"Oh, for god's sake!" Piranha gave the slave a light shove, sending him staggering back a few steps.

But unfazed, the old man instantly returned, peering at him closely. "You're built pretty strange, ain't you? You must be the First Mate." Piranha's wolfish glare didn't faze him either. "So," the slave went on cheerfully, "being as you're the top puppy of this heap of snarling dogs, I'll give you your fortune for free. But you can still kill me if–"

"Shut up!"

"– you want to, afterwards."

Piranha dived at him. With surprising agility the old man scooted away. Piranha followed him for a few steps then paused. The slave, halfway across the room, hovered ready to flee. They eyed each other for a moment, each poised to lunge if the other stirred. Piranha feinted as if to run. The old man fled.

With a sigh, Piranha turned back to his chair. He sat down, pulled his drink close to him as if for protection, and shut his eyes.

In a moment there was a spidery grip on his collar. Disbelievingly, he groaned and turned towards the intruder.

"Blew off some steam, young fella? Feel better? Now, I won't bother you, I'll just sit down here."

Piranha shook his head and turned away as the old man sat in the chair to his right.

"Isn't this friendly? Buy me a drink, lad, it's the least you could do."

Piranha shoved his full cup towards the man. "Here. I don't want it."

"I thank ya." As the slave was rapidly emptying the cup, Piranha silently got to his feet and headed for the door. A moment later, the old man darted in front of him.

"You've paid me, now you have to have your fortune."

"That wasn't–"

"You're going to hear it anyway, young sprout. Show me your hand."

Piranha pulled back, growling. "Lad, young fella, sprout," he rumbled. "I'm not as young as you think. Odds are I've been around a lot longer than you."

The old man squinted at him unimpressed. "That may be, but I'm still old and you still aren't. You're fresh off the assembly line, boyo. Now you gave me a drink, and I'm giving you a prophecy."

"Shove off."

"You're a tough customer, pup. Right then, I'll make a deal with you. I give you something valuable, and you let me read your palm."

Piranha suspended his irritation for a moment, smiling dryly. "Don't tell me you've got anything valuable."

"How do you know I don't?"

There was a silence. Piranha sighed.

"All right. If part of the agreement is that you disappear afterwards, I'll go along with it. Deal?"

"Deal. Now give me your hand."

"Wait, aren't you supposed to give me something first?"

"What is it with you young bucks nowadays? Always in a rush. It's not kindly to make an old man work so hard."

Piranha gave him a sardonic look. "You want kindness now? From a pirate?"

The slave laughed shortly. "You, a pirate? Hah, you don't even know what a pirate is."

Piranha's black eyes flashed. "Look, slave–"

The old man went on without a break, with growing oratorical fervor. "Why, you've barely arrived here. What do you know of this ship? Were you here when the men of old created it? Did you witness the violent birth of this vast robot world? Have you tallied the plunder of ancient days, when they had only to reach out a hand–"

"What?" Piranha cut in. "Men created this ship?

The old man cackled unpleasantly. "Heehee, you didn't know that, did you?"

"'Violent birth'? Are you saying the robots – the robots conquered this ship? Stole it from humans?"

The old man laid a long finger slyly aside his nose in the most hackneyed fashion. "That's a blundering bluntness to be speaking in this place, greenhorn."

Involuntarily Piranha glanced around, then came in close to the slave, hissing fiercely, "Where'd you get this from? Were you here back then, did you see it?"

The slave raised moth-eaten grey eyebrows. "Sonny, I'm old but not hardly that old."

"So how do you know?"

The slave took on a distant, mystical smile; and as he spoke, his voice slowed, deepened from a thin, high-pitched creak to a portentous drone. "It is said the robots have much blood on their hands. Legends relate, prophecies foretell, humans made the robots and humans will destroy them. It may be that Anaconda was among the first; yet he may be among the last. And perhaps he claims the robots, yet perhaps he claims the men. But doubtless he damns them both. The gods of the ancient men lie in wait–"

Exasperated, Piranha seized him by the shoulders. "Legends? Predictions? Anaconda? Ah, you're just making stuff up!"

The old man grinned at him unperturbed. Piranha let him go. "Why would I need to invent anything, my lad, when the legends have been handed down from generation to generation of slave and pirate alike?"

"Oh, rusty clanking rotors," Piranha muttered. "Legends." He turned to go.

"Wait, young fella. You haven't kept your side of the deal."

Piranha whirled on him. "What? Deal? Oh. Oh yes. But you were supposed to give me..." He paused, then, thoughtfully; his eyes narrowed.

The old man smiled beatifically. "You never know the value of anything you have until you use it," he murmured. "Now take off that glove."

Piranha eyed him, hesitating. Then he pulled off the heavy black glove and held out his hand, palm up. In a guttural voice, he said, "I'll put up with this charade for a few minutes. Make it quick."

The slave snatched the hand with both of his as if capturing a small animal. "A strange hand you've got here. Truncated, without an arm, detached from a body; yet complete and whole in itself. You're a peculiar lad, my boy."

"Compared to a piratical robot or a prognosticating old drunk? I don't think so."

The old man stroked the hand for a moment, turning it a little, examining the shape and surface of it. Piranha scowled. "Don't do that."

"Calm down, calm down, not wise to show your nerves." With a mockingly professional air the slave turned the hand smoothly over and inspected the palm. "Yes, remarkable hand. Very strong. Clean, too – I told you, you're no pirate. But look at all this experience. How'd you manage to collect so much? And bad..." He mused, while Piranha inhaled then exhaled an impatient huff. "Too much bad experience."

"Find one person aboard this ship you couldn't say the exact same thing about," Piranha growled, trying to pull away. The old man clutched the hand harder, grinning like a demon.

"And no life line on it at all."

"I suppose that means I'm dead?"

The old man gave him a lofty look. "Could mean any number of things."

Piranha glowered. "Fortunetellers! Concocting something out of nothing. It would be just as easy for me to take your hand and mumble nonsense about it."

"Aha, but I do it and you don't. There's the difference... See here? You have luck. You're lucky, more than you deserve. Only, is the luck good or bad? And which one do you deserve – the good luck or the bad? Bit worried about that, ain't you?"

Piranha, his eyes blazing, yanked his hand away. The old man snatched it back again. Gleefully, he went on, "Plenty of past here, but no future. Yes, yes, this hand's lost its grip. Whatever it touches turns into the opposite. Now there's a curse for you, one for the legends."

Piranha yanked his hand away again, balling it into a fist. But there was no stopping the old man; he continued, "There was kindness in you once, my lad, it's right there in those clear blue eyes. But now you can't touch anything without killing it, can you? Servitor of the gods of death!"

Of its own accord, Piranha's fist swung back and flashed forward to smash the slave's face; he managed to halt it barely a fingerbreadth away.

The old man didn't flinch. He grinned, showing a lack of teeth, and grabbed hold of Piranha's collar, thrusting his face close to Piranha's. "But don't all pirates worship death? Maybe you are one after all."

Piranha dug his fingers into the skinny hand on his jacket and flung it away from him. He was breathing with some difficulty. "Don't say any more," he said, hoarsely. "I – don't know what I might do."

"No, you don't, do you?" the old man said, his lips drawn back in a grimace more snarl than smile. "You never do know anymore, do you? Once you were truth, flowing clear like pure water. Now you're ice, black ice, impenetrable..."

Piranha backed away a step. There was bitter rage in his face. "You must be a magician. There's no other way you can still be alive, the way you talk. You should have been murdered long ago."

The slave began to advance on him. Piranha's eyes widened. He took another step backwards, then another. The old man was chasing him across the room, step by slow step, talking in a low, vicious hiss, spiteful triumph growing in his face.

"You still think you're playing dress-up? That you'll take off that handsome hat one day and be innocent again? You think you can be the Boss's stooge and still own yourself?"

Piranha snarled like an animal at bay, but didn't answer.

"You think because you hate him he don't own you? The more you hate him the better he likes it. You sold yourself to him, never mind your precious shred of independence, you're his. You're his."

"No," Piranha gasped,"No, I belong to–" An icy wave washed over him. Pure, frozen terror. He took another step backwards, and bumped up against the wall. He held motionless, staring at his opponent.

"Thought you were being a hero? But what if you were always evil? Just couldn't see it? Still can't see it? The truly evil never can!"

Piranha didn't stir, his back against the wall, his large eyes fixated on the slave.

The old man's pale eyes sparkled vindictively. "What, nothing to say for yourself? All right, I'll say it for you. You can't do anything now but turn good into evil. Struggle, howl, or cry, you'll never do anything else. You chose it, you chose the evil side."

Piranha's body sank down a little. He put a hand over his eyes. "I don't want to be evil," he whispered. And felt at last, in a flood of hopelessness that overswept all barricades, how despairingly true that was.

The slave moved in on him, thrusting his own big nose close to Piranha's, weaving back and forth from foot to foot, almost dancing, grinning like an ape. "What? Cheating? Getting away with vileness because your heart is pure? O child of nature! A pure heart, after what you've done! You dream that someday it'll all come out right and your crimes will never have been? No, from now on, everything you touch you'll destroy."

Piranha clapped his hands over his face. Then pulled them away, raging. "Who the hell are you to talk to me like this! What the hell do you know about it?"

The old man paused in his mocking dance. "I'm a slave. I was captured, I lived through all the fine entertainments the pirates can work on a man. You were a fighter, you were captured, and you chose to be a pirate. That says everything."

"No," said Piranha heatedly. "No it doesn't. You don't know anything about me, it's nothing like what you–"

The old man smiled evilly, baring his gap-toothed gums, pointing his skinny finger practically into Piranha's eye.

"Sing, dance, and cry, my boy, what does it change? Sing and dance, dream and lie. You'll still end up where they all end up, swallowed whole by Anaconda, all your wriggling and writhing only to give him a pleasant tickle."

Piranha closed his eyes, clenching his fists. He held still as wave after wave of fury swept over him like fire, snatching away his breath, petrifying his body. Then at last he slumped. He took a shuddering breath.

"Choosing evil? Choosing it? Those who don't have to act," he gasped, in a hoarse, tremulous voice, "never seem willing not to talk."

"What's that, shipmate?"

Piranha straightened up. He shoved the old man aside.

"Wait!" the old man called. "Your prophecy's not done!"

Ignoring him, Piranha strode rapidly towards the door. The old man danced alongside him, sneering. "Oh, come now, don't run out on me! What, scared of a silly old man? Scared of words? Then use those pirate brains! Swords, knives, guns! I'm old, I'm tired, I know too much, I've earned my freedom, I want peace! Do the one good deed of your worthless life, take that flying fist and strike me dead!"

Piranha halted momentarily, turned to snarl at him. Then he leapt away, lurching through the door. As it slid closed, he still heard the old man's cackling voice.

"What's one more little murder, pirate boy? Why can't I get equal treatment around here?"

(End of Part 2)