Days upon days could have drifted into one another like smeared paint and yet, none could have noticed. The nights were the days and vice versa. Freddy couldn't distinguish much longer after the fifth, though he tried with all his being would allow... Not that it mattered. No one else seemed to care. Freddy did, however. He wasn't entirely sure why, but deep in his stomach, the though of losing track ate away at him like acid. He'd lost track. It was the worst it could have been. Gerard had since recovered, the musket ball now removed from his shoulder and wound stitched. He'd been up and eating on his own as well. Freddy's recovery was slower, but when his full possible strength was at peak, he knew he'd be ready. For what, he was still working out. The cell doors were seldom opened. When they were, it wasn't but some select cells every week. Freddy's had been opened once and was met with fighting, so they didn't open it again for two weeks. That time, Freddy was taken above deck and lined up with some other few. What transpired then was still etched deep into his lobe.

Faces were as expected: afraid and uncertain. The mix in which he'd been mingled was of mostly weaker beings, void of strength or use. There were selections like Freddy who'd been surviving rather well and could live much longer, given the current treatment of the prisoners was consistent in the future. Three burly crew members held muskets tight in their paws and one walked along the line with a simple pistol. She was new to Freddy's eyes. Judging by the expressions of others, she wasn't to them. She was a white-furred canine with a long, luxurious tail and attractive figure, but her muzzle was riddled with horrific scars as well as her exposed arms. Her fur could not grow around the markings and it left her mangled in appearance. She wore a simple white half-shirt and black trousers. She continued her walk about, up and down the line then back again as before, repeated the process. Then, she stopped in front of one, a thinning feline male with dead eyes. She tilted her head left, then right, then left again, before standing, aiming down her sight, and firing point blank. The feline slumped dead within his own shards of brain. The fox walked up and down again. This time, she stopped at a rather healthy looking Crow. His feathers were oily, but his strength seemed constant. Freddy recognized him from the Moore Runner. Despite his obvious health, however, the vixen aimed an fired. The crow lay dead in seconds.

This trend was repeated for quite some time, leaving six others dead, some healthy looking, others not so much. Finally, she waved her paw and the rest were taken back below deck.

Freddy knew he'd be taken out again. He'd seen many go in and out and always come back multiple times. Gerard had come back twice. They'd take him out again, but when they did, he needed a plan, else he'd just walk a dead man. From his cell, Freddy could make out some nets, hanging from the low ceilings. They had kegs of something. Freddy hoped it was powder, though rum was still flammable. Every crew member carried a pistol on their hip and a musket on their back. He needed one. He could get one with the right slip of the paw. He'd need a distraction, however, then something to do once he was out. Where would he go? Freddy looked beside him and saw his father fast asleep on some hay he'd piled up. Would he take Gerard? He shook his head. 'No. I'm not leaving the ship. There's nowhere to go. I'll think of a plan.' The younger grizzly had observed most of the crew and found the majority to be of the thinner likes. He was much stronger than them. He could over power many. His dark fur could also give him an advantage at night. Then, there was the situation with the captain. That fox had to have some skill if he held such a rank among some who seemed stronger and others with scars to prove them battle worthy. He had to be something special. Judging by his thin frame and light paws, he could be a good swordsman, but the creature carried pistols. A sharpshooter maybe, but what could they do at suffocating close range?

The nightshade darkness was mellow cast aside by yellow lamps and flickering flames. Her fur shown dimly in such lighting, but her scars shined like new blood. Foxy had never been fazed by her scars, nor her, in spite of her skill. She was younger than him, smaller slightly, as well. Not to mention kin. "What're the numbers?" he asked. She scratched her breast.

"Thinner by much, cap'in. We're down twelve. Th'rest seem well 'nuff. The old'un be fine, s'well. All'm gonna survive, s'far s'we can tell." The red male twisted a rum-bottle in his paw, staring out his window, or rather at the reflection of himself upon it. Why didn't he like what he saw any better than before? He'd done memorable things... things that could be told as story, yet he still felt a shadow loomed over him... It's size was unimaginable. Why...? Could it just be a goal he would never reach? "What be on ye mind, brother?" Her voice had gone to a soft lull which it only would around him.

"Nothin', lass... Keep'n eye on them. Crew s'well. 'specially Layton. That'n 'll be trouble or me be a Bambi."

"Papa n'er had no trouble out'a him..."

"That's 'cause Layton knew his place with father... Though he hated t'keep it. Do s'I say, fer now, lass. I know me feelins and me feelins be sick 'round that cat." The white vixen nodded, turning tail to her brother.

"If'n that be ye command, Cap'n."

"Vaha..."

"Yessir, Cap'n?"

"Dun be callin' me that, lass. No command'n position be above kin."

"Yessir," She smiles sly. "Cap'n." Foxy smacked his desk, turning his seat full about to bark at the vixen.

"What'n me tells ye!?" he laughs. His sister is out the door long before he can reach the peek of scold. Once she is, he falls back into a sit. His paws ran down his muzzle and he sighed. A map had been lain out on his desk to be glanced over and it has been.. many times. He'd marked places along their voyage and none really struck out. Then, he glances over a previously marked area. It's near one of the Ursian island bays, long from the actual island, but still moderately protected. One of the shoals has a coral reef that cannot be tread by larger ships... It's never been attempted anyway. From there, any single ship could fire at Ursian navel hulls at will. The other sides were protected by island. The thin line which lead in made room for only one ship at a time. Why he'd marked it off before was because of the reef, but now... Now he felt a string tug at his heart... This could be it. If he could get the La Pirata Cala into that shoal, he could encamp and destroy a fleet. This WAS it. This was his call to fame. This what what his father and the entire world would remember him for. "Mr. Shmitd!" The door burst open within moments.

"Yes, Captain?"

"Make sail for the Fairland Islands. When we be in range'f Zeepin, call stop'n wait." Mike's brow rose.

"What are you thinking, Foxy?"

"Me thinkin' that we be about t'make history."