Note: completely destroyed the formatting of the story in Chapter One, and then on top of that, it nearly cut a fourth of the chapter off. So, you might want to go back and read, because you missed a bit.

"So, where exactly are we going?" an anxious John asked, eyes darting around the dark street as he walked.

Next to him, the ever cool and collected Kanaya's step never once faltered. She seemed to be very familiar with their route, even as they left the pubs and busy docks and ventured into some kind of abandoned warehouse district, all of its buildings long and flat, all of its windows broken and covered. "You'll see. Perhaps it would be best if you don't ask too many questions when we arrive."

This did little to calm his nerves. He drummed his fingers on his thighs, wondering which of the concrete warehouses they would enter. They were all as uninviting as could be. John still didn't understand what he'd been thinking, but of course it was much too late to back out now. He was in too deep. He was about to enter a pirate's lair, for Christ's sake, and once he saw it, he imagined he would be sworn to secrecy with a penalty of death, should he refuse.

The most dilapidated of the buildings was their destination. One side was crumbling slightly, chunks of grey-white rubble piled on the dirt beside the structure. The door had long since been boarded; with practiced ease, Kanaya pushed back a black tarp and slid through a revealed window. John swallowed audibly and clambered through after her, nicking his gloves on the shards lining the bottom of the sill. He found himself in a room which he could, surprisingly, see in; the shock wore off when he looked up. The warehouse's roof had been cleared away completely, leaving the skies visible. The massive one-room building was easily large enough to house a sizeable airship. Maybe a few planes.

He was still dumbstruck when he leered through the gloomy air and saw that his estimations were exactly right. Taking up most of the floor space was a full-sized airship, slightly rusted and charcoal in colour. Someone had painted spider webs on its sides. John could see why it was called an "airship"; it looked as if any old steamship had been plucked from the ocean and outfitted with sails and wings and a propeller on its far end.

To add to his awe, he saw a number of small planes, the kind he knew inside and out, clustered around the airship. He stumbled to the nearest plane. It was a bronze-colored bird, and just by running his hand along its side, he could feel the ache to fly it swell in his chest. He patted the plane fondly and swiveled around to face Kanaya. She had crossed the enormous length of the warehouse-turned-hangar and was fiddling with a door he hadn't seen before.

He jogged to catch up to her. As he approached, she returned a brass key to her skirts and opened the flimsy door. A flight of stairs folded downward. She guided him down the steep steps, through another door, and into an underground hallway. Footprints cut through the carpet of dust on the floor. He began to hear voices in the walls, loud, male voices. Kanaya was about as reassuring as a brick; she walked ahead of him without speaking.

They traversed several more deserted halls, hearing traces of conversations in multiple rooms as they went. Kanaya tossed a glance back at him. "I think it would be best for you to let me do the talking and whatnot."

Before he could panic, she knocked on a heavy steel door. A gruff voice barked from the other side of it, "Password!"

"Mindfang."

The sound of several locks clicking filled the silence. When the door opened to admit them, a sawed-off shotgun immediately trained on them. No one moved. Then, a female voice from inside the room called, "Kan! Let her in, and put the damn gun down."

John tried to ease the raging nervousness in his stomach as he and Kanaya entered the room. It was dimly lit, plainly furnished, and filled with savage-looking men, armed to the teeth. The female speaker grinned brightly at them. She was seated at the head of a knobby old table, tapping her scarred fingers on a map.

"I thought I made myself clear. Kanaya is always welcome here."

The men (pirates?) bowed their heads at her words. John couldn't tell if they feared or respected the young woman; probably both, by the looks of her. Her grin was sharper than the sword at her waist. When her head turned, he saw a patch over her left eye. Kanaya seemed perfectly at ease as she tugged John with her and sat down at the table.

"You all can go now," the woman said lazily, waving one hand. Her crew dispersed. Somehow, being more alone with the enigmatic figure in front of him was more frightening, and he was grateful when Kanaya gently squeezed his hand under the table.

"I see you brought a friend." One dark blue eye jumped from Kanaya's face to John's and back. "I hope he isn't weak of heart."

"Drop the theatrics, please," Kanaya said dryly. "I have a request. My young friend here is a pilot and can't find work on, let's say, the right side of the law."

"A pilot, hm?" She leaned forward and scrutinized him, blue-painted lips curling around the "hm" and drawing it out. "Well, you do recommend him…"

The pirate paused in her speech. She was very predatory, John decided. "Fine. He's in."

Before he could react, she reached under the table and resurfaced with a sheathed pistol, which she passed to him. He took it with one shaking hand. "Wh-what's this for?"

She only laughed.

He swallowed and stashed the weapon under his coat. He was in deep, now; no backing out. A nervous smile painted his face. "So, er, when do I start?"

"Where did you find this one?" the pirate asked Kanaya, raising an eyebrow. "He's so…pure."

"Enough of that," Kanaya chided. "I don't believe you've introduced yourselves."

John jumped to his feet, holding out one hand. "I'm John! John Egbert."

"Captain Vriska Serket, to you," she replied, not shaking his hand. "Welcome to the fleet."

She stood and went to the cement fireplace in the corner of the room, reviving the flames with a poker. "I warn you, Mr. Egbert, this isn't going to be a walk in the park for you. I have to know…"

She spun around; the poker was still in her right hand, while her left hand held her hat loosely. Upon closer inspection, he saw that her hand, and possibly her whole arm, was automated, cast in silver. John dragged his gaze back to hers as she continued, "Are you willing to die for me?"

He wasn't sure what to say; so he just said yes.

Jake arrived at Dirk Strider's shop amidst a torrent of London rain. Shaking water from his hair ― he'd stupidly forgotten a hat ― he shut the door behind him. He brushed droplets from the broad shoulders of his coat and came up to the counter, where a blonde man wearing tinted spectacles stood. He had his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and his orange vest was unbuttoned. The links of a watch chain snaked out from underneath it.

"Hullo," Jake said brightly, shaking the man's hand firmly. "I'm looking for a Dirk Strider. Would you happen to be him?"

"Depends," the man answered, tossing an oil-soaked rag over his shoulder. "Are you Jake English?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you can call me Mr. Strider."

Dirk motioned for Jake to follow him. They settled down in a parlor off to the side, where Jake accepted a cup of tea.

"We'll get right to it," Dirk said, all business. He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. "I lead a very dangerous life, Mr. English. I have enemies."

"What kind of enemies?" Despite himself, Jake's excitement blossomed.

Dirk clasped his hands in front of him. "More than a few. Pirates, the London Mob, the Metropolitan Police."

"And you want me to…"

"I need a partner of sorts," Dirk hedged. "Someone I can trust with my life. Are you up to the job, Mr. English?"

There was no hesitation; Jake stood in nanoseconds and held out his hand. "You've got your man, Mr. Strider!"

They shook on it and sat back down. Dirk rifled around in a drawer and slapped several black-and-white photographs down on the coffee table, pointing to the topmost one. The woman in the photo wore an eye-patch and a wide-brimmed hat. "Vriska Serket. Pirate extraordinaire. Watch out for her ― she's an ally, but a poor one at that."

He slid the photograph aside and pointed to the next one; a man, also dressed like a pirate, glared back at them from behind thick spectacles. "Eridan Ampora, Duke of Kent, cousin of the Queen. His crimes usually go unpunished, because think on it: Metropolitan Police can't exactly arrest the Duke, can they? He's ruthless."

"This is the Commissioner of the Police Pyrope, better known as Redglare by most. She's too clever for her own good, and her daughter" ― he moved Redglare's photo aside and to reveal a girl that bore a striking resemblance to her ― "is nearly as bright. Both of them are cause for concern."

"Alright."

Dirk held up the next photo. A bald man in a suit was pictured, with tattoos on his face that made him look like a living skull. "Lord Caliborn of Wales. At least, that's what he tells everyone. He's the most villainous crime boss in the London Mob, and he's out for blood. Remember him."

"Yes, sir." He didn't see how he could forget that face.

"That's about it," Dirk concluded. He looked up. "If you see the Duke, Caliborn, or the Commissioner, shoot to kill."

He blinked in surprise, but nodded. "Yes, sir."

"I think the two of will get along just fine, Mr. English."

Sollux Captor received Equius Zahhak's letter in the evening. He took the post in from the rain, shut the door behind him, and settled down in his kitchen. The envelope was light in his hand. Curious, he read the letter as he set water to boil. It read:

Destroy the program.

Sollux let the sheaf of parchment slip between his fingers to the floor. He knew what this meant. The automaton had worked, and if what Equius believed was true ― that spies had seen the technology ― he was the next target. Not bothering to turn off the stove, he made for his office. The many engines around the room, some analytical, some difference, chugged quietly. He ripped open his desk drawer and withdrew a file. It was not labeled.

He opened it. His hands didn't shake; he was calm. His notes were still there. His program was safe. He closed the folder and turned on the spot, ready to toss it into the fire and put the mess behind him. He had made great leaps in science, but he and Equius knew: the world was not ready for the responsibility.

As it happened, he could not incinerate the program; someone was standing in front of the fireplace. Three someones, in fact.

The man in front watched with disinterest, hands in the pockets of his bright green suit. His vivid red bowtie added to the strange style of dress. The man's mouth was in a carefully flat line, because had he smiled, the tattoos of fangs around his lips would have warped beyond recognition. Tattoos at his temples and cheekbones made him appear even more skeletal. Behind him, two burly men in black stood menacingly.

"Mr. Captor," the man said. "I'll be taking that."

Sollux made a move to tear the program in two, to somehow salvage the situation; the men were faster. The two thugs grabbed his upper arms in vise-like grips. The skull-faced man took the folder, nodding at its contents. He didn't smile. Instead, he tucked the file into his jacket and fixed his bloodshot eyes on Sollux.

"I like to play games," he said, simply. "And I like to win even more."

With that, he made a gesture Sollux didn't understand. He vaguely saw the muzzle of a gun; vaguely heard the beam of aether.

After that there was only darkness, and pain.

"I should be happy," Feferi Peixes whispered to herself, and truthfully, she was right.

She stood and walked to the drawing room's window, raising her silk-gloved hand to the smooth glass. The palace's immaculate lawns unfolded beneath her. Everything she saw was perfect in every way, perfect and clean and untouched. She hated it. And for that, surely she was the most ungrateful girl to ever live. She was the princess of England and somehow, she was still not happy.

A servant appeared at her side, doting. Does Your Royal Highness need anything?

No.

Of course, Your Highness.

When she was alone again, she sat down in her ridiculously large skirts and turned a cup in its saucer with her little finger. She tried to force herself to be satisfied. She took in the splendors around her, the privileges so many people didn't have. But that made her feel worse. While she lived amongst the richest and most powerful, her people ― her mother's people, actually ― died in the streets, starved or murdered or worse.

Feferi had no idea what she was doing; one moment, she was sitting quietly, and the next, she was bounding to the telephone. There was a number she had been instructed to call should the need arise.

Her fingers slipped as she dialed, but after several attempts she managed it. The tone that followed was harsh in her ear.

"Hello?" The voice on the other end of the line was questioning, wary, and Feferi knew why.

"Eridan," she whispered. The servants were always watching, she knew. Her mother had told them to do so. But she was alone in the room, and so long as she kept her voice down, she would be safe.

"Fef?" he asked, voice lowering as well.

"I want to go with you."

He faltered. "Are…you sure? If Her Majesty were to find out…"

"I don't care," she said, firmly. "I can't sit here anymore. Come get me."

"Alright, alright. I'll be there as soon as I can. You'd better think up an excuse now," he advised. And with that, the Duke of Kent ended the call.

She hurried upstairs and changed into the clothes she'd smuggled into her room. They weren't very flashy or attention grabbing, and would be right at home in London's back ways. She hid her face with a wide-brimmed hat and trotted down the servants' staircase, knowing full well her mother's spies would be waiting for her on the main stairs. They were becoming predictable.

The cook was mercifully absent, so she ducked through the kitchens and onto the back lawns. A circuit around the east side of the palace and she found herself a few meters shy of the driveway, where several guards (read: drones) marched in perfect tempo, all in step. They weren't actually defending the palace; as if automatons could handle guns! But they were equipped with cameras and able to snap forty photographs per second. Best to stay away from them, she knew, so she scurried past them, using hedges as cover, and slipped onto the street through the open front gates.

Eridan made good time. His sleek black automobile putted to a stop within minutes, steam curling from the exhaust. He held the passenger door open for her. They were still in the clear, since no guards were in pursuit, and Feferi allowed herself a sigh of relief.

They left the main streets and soon found themselves at the London Harbor, south side. She'd only ever been to the north side before; it was more "princess-friendly" and outfitted with a myriad of diplomats and rich folk boarding and leaving luxurious ships. The south side was much grittier. Already, she could see that there were more than a few wanted men about. Eridan kept one hand tight on her arm as he marched her from his vehicle to the docks.

One stretch of wooden walkway later, they stopped. Feferi peered over the edge of the dock curiously. And there it was. Eridan's submarine, three-hundred-fifty feet in length, thirty feet in width, and partially hidden by the pulsing grey waves and thick, salty fog.

Eridan's submarine was used primarily for his pirate raids.

She knew this, and yet she allowed him to help her down the frayed rope ladder and through the hatch, into the pirate's vessel.

John's lies were all planned out by the time he came home. Dave and Jade were under the impression that a wealthy man who owned a private postage service had hired him, and because it was not government-funded, John would be flying his plane at all hours of the day. It would help if he was involved in a raid that took place at midnight. Nonetheless, he hated lying to his friends.

It was at the tender hour of four one morning when he woke, nervous, sweating, and on the verge of vomiting, and dressed silently. He was about to become a real, actual criminal.

He shimmied down the drain pipe and onto the street, then stole away through the shadows of London, setting course for the warehouse. It was silent and still around the building. He'd somehow expected hoards of pirates to be flocking in and out, or any indication that organized crime was taking place, really.

As soon as he crept through the broken window and set the tarp back in place, he realized that all of the action was going on inside.

There was no sound. Everyone had a task, yet not one burly pirate opened his mouth. John stared in surprise. Some crew members were boarding the airship, lugging supplies; others were climbing into small planes. It occurred to John that he had no idea what he was supposed to do. He walked forward, skittering out of the way when a monster of a man passed. He tried to right himself, but it was too late ― he bumped into someone that was, surprisingly, smaller than him.

The captain turned and raised her eyebrows at him.

He swallowed. He was in for it now. He'd just stumbled into the ruthless leader of a band of pirates, and surely she was going to cut off his fingers or something similar as punishment―

"Watch where you're going, Mr. Egbert," she advised, apparently uninterested. "Your bird is over there."

He gasped out some reply and escaped before he could embarrass himself further. The plane she'd indicated was definitely not in mint condition, but he couldn't complain. He hauled himself into the cockpit and buckled his seatbelt. It was spectacular, to be behind the controls again. He smiled, gripped the throttle with one hand, and flicked the switch on his radio. It crackled to life.

Things were clearing up on the hangar's floor. A few stragglers rushed to where they needed to be, then the hatch leading into the belly of the airship swung shut, like some kind of sign. Instantly, engines started up around him. John fired up the plane with a satisfied yank of a lever and a few switches.

All other sounds were dwarfed when the massive airship's boilers were fed, producing a roar of fire that penetrated the hull. John fumbled to drag his goggles onto his eyes and place bulky headphones over his ears at the same time. Captain Serket's voice wavered over the line.

"Hello, darlings," she greeted, drawing out words the way she tended to. "We have quite a lot to do tonight, don't we? As long as you listen closely, we're likely to get out of this with our lives. Your objective is to kill everything that stands in your way, and the rest…the rest, you'll figure out all on your own."

John felt a jolt of panic. He really had no idea what to do. All he had been told was that since he was flying a small craft, he'd be clearing the way for the airship. Nothing more. As these directions weren't very explanatory, he had reason to be worried.

The first two birds took off. John was the third to last to take flight, idling on the dusty concrete floor for a while before working on the controls. He breathed out slowly as the nose tilted up. Soon, he cleared the building itself, until he was leveling out at around ten thousand meters. The airship loomed in his mirrors. Suddenly, the radio sparked again. A navigator began shouting orders.

"Blackbeard to fifty-four and two-fifths north, zero and six-tenths west…"

The plane dubbed Blackbeard dipped to the left at the navigator's command. John listened carefully for his codename ― Con ― and the coordinates that would follow. He didn't want to be the idiot who couldn't adjust his flight pattern; that would be mortifying.

"Con," the navigator ordered. "Two degrees to the right! Get with it, lad."

John blushed, glad that no one could see his face, and angled the bird to the right. He was surviving. He was a pirate. He was on his way to commit a crime, and despite this all, a certain thrill tickled up and down his spine.

"Up ahead!" This time the captain's voice came over the radio. She sounded like she was simply having a smashing time. "Target in sight, get your arses in motion!"

John leaned forward and squinted through the smoggy air. There it was ― the cargo ship they planned on plundering. It was a bit bigger than the pirate's airship, but slower and heavier. John tightened his hands on the throttle. He could do this. But he couldn't help but think of the captain's words: "…kill everything that stands in your way…"

The navigator started up again, with greater urgency. "Con, get your guns on the right wing. Bronze, get on left…"

John froze. He had hoped he'd be able to slide by without shooting; those hopes were crushed. His thumbs shook over the red buttons that would fire his Gatling guns. Did he really want to do this? He could always land, get back to the States, accept his father's disappointment…

He took a deep breath. His thumbs stilled, and then pressed down.

The flash of muzzle fire lit up the underside of his vision. Stomach in knots, he trained the fire on the right side of the airship, tearing wings to pieces. The left side was equally damaged. As the cargo ship began to sink, the pirate ship gathered speed, hovering over the wrecked craft. John watched in awe. The pirate ship lowered several chains from its hull, snagging the cargo ship in its grasp, so that it was suspended midair. Then, quick and lithe, pirates began to climb down the chains, dropping onto the deck of the cargo ship.

John tried to provide cover fire from the air, but it was near impossible. The pirates and the cargo ship's crew clashed, swords flashing, guns blasting. Soon enough the pirates overcame their victims. John was thankful that from where he was, he couldn't see any blood. Meanwhile, crates were being lifted into the hull of the airship. The whole operation had taken less than ten minutes.

The radio came to life once more. The navigator's voice: "Good show. We're just about done here ― son of a ―!"

The flashing red lights made themselves known seconds later. The navigator's swears eventually became a warning. "Metropolitan Police! Scatter, scatter, scatter!"

John twisted in his seat. Coming up fast, a few rickety (but effective) aircrafts eclipsed his vision. They all bore the Queen's crest on one side and the Metropolitan Police logo ― a set of scales ― on the other. So the police had found them. John beat down the fear in his chest and followed his orders, pushing down on the throttle and dropping into a stomach-flattening nose dive. The airship let the wrecked cargo ship go and spun out of the way. It was chaos, planes everywhere, the hulking airship disappearing into the cloud cover, with the lightweight police crafts trying to round up the stragglers.

The navigator pieced together a last few orders. "Take the long way back to base. If you think for one goddamn second that you're being trailed, don't come within fifty kilos!"

And with that, the radio died, and John was alone.

The city was coming up to meet him at a sickening rate. He pulled out of the dive and craned his neck to look up; it seemed he'd escaped without being noticed. He forced the plane into a reluctant U-turn and pushed it to full speed. The last thing he wanted was a police craft to bear down on him, but all the way back to the hangar, the skies were empty around him. He circled above the warehouse for several minutes before coming to a rocky landing inside.

He was the first one back. The first thing he did when he unstrapped himself was dash outside and vomit in the grass; afterwards, he sat down against the building and put his head between his knees. It spun for a while. He was vaguely certain some of the others were landing in the hangar behind him, but for the time being he needed a moment to himself.

After a while he stood on shaking legs and reentered the hangar. The airship was back, all in one piece, and pirates were streaming from it, carrying heavy crates. The fruits of their labor. John knew that the cargo would be sold underground soon, turning out a huge profit, but that wasn't his area of expertise. He would just stick to flying and try not to throw up again.

"So? What did you think?"

John stiffened, revolving in place. Captain Serket's eye glinted with excitement.

"I…I think I'm in shock." He pinched his arm. "Yes. Shock."

"That's the spirit!" As she walked away, she sheathed her sword. It was stained red from tip to hilt.

He could not believe this was what he was doing with his life.

I'm really awful for making you wait so long for two, but school started and ugh, you know the deal. Updates should be more regular from here on out.