one more sweet boy to be butchered by men

i want to taste you again

The distance between Torchline and King's End isn't a terribly large one - enough for any skyship to make the trip within a day, certainly - but the drop in temperature is stark and immediately noticeable. Colour leaches out of the sky mere hours after leaving the islands, filming it with a cataract of snowfall and fog, and the air grows teeth that nip at any exposed flesh without prejudice. Down in the Castaway Exchange, the morning is slow moving; stalls are open, their merchants stiff-limbed and hopeful, but there are precious few window shoppers today, and only those who have to be outside appear to be braving the ice-slick docks.

The Ark is anchored in her berth like a seabird at rest, rust-red sails down, the dark lacquer of her hull speckled white with snowfall, and a large brazier burns bright upon her deck to keep the ice from getting too friendly with her boards. She might not be sailing for a few days yet, but the galleon is never empty; some crew move up and down her gangplank to load shipments into her belly, the crates branded by businesses that are almost certainly fronts for more nefarious operations. The ship's mate - a small, olive-skinned man named Murphy - oversees the operations, and will most certainly take note of any skinny thieves named Finch who might come calling to deliver a certain ledger lifted from Rae's Fingers.

Jack, for his part, is in his map room beneath the quarterdeck towards the stern of the ship, a large chart rolled out before him that shows a course he's plotted dozens of times between Torchline and a few small, hidden islands out in the Arclight. He's never plotted it from King's End, though, and so to say he's got work to do is an understatement. It's already been close to an hour of staring and course correcting, though, so it's with a grunt of acceptance - that all men, even Jack Barclay, require a break - that he slumps back into one of the chairs around the table.

His hands move automatically for the cigarettes tucked into the inside pocket of his waistcoat, and as he sets one between his lips, it's already smoking and alight. Closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose, Jack draws the smoke deep into his lungs and waits, willing the imprint of the map now burned into the backs of his eyelids to fade.

like a secret or a sin

JACK

The journey from Torchline to King's End was not a long one, but Finch's colorful imaginings of the various ways Jack may splay and dissect his innards certainly elongated the trip. He had stayed on the deck throughout the entire voyage, watching as the sky turned from a vibrant, cloud-speckled blue into the color of an old bruise, the angry bite of the cold snapping eagerly at his skin. He had breathed the thin air in and out, pulling it into his lungs like water rushing aboard a sinking ship and held it there, trying to memorize the feeling of it, trying to capture the blood pumping under his skin. His hands are empty, lithe thief's fingers that had coaxed and wheedled so many treasures from such precarious maws nothing but cuts and calluses. He hopes Jack will let him keep all of his fingers. He's rather fond of them. 

The ground of King's End is half-frozen beneath his feet and Finch doesn't think he will ever get used to the sensation of moving silently through streets that fight back against the inertia of a moving body. The cold pulls against the scar on his face as he grimaces against the biting wind; though he's completed this journey more than a few times in his indenture to Jack, he can't help but feel like the wind takes pleasure in slashing into him each and every time. It's almost a relief to get to the Ark, and below the decks, Finch is practically frog-marched towards wherever Jack is presumably stationed in this maze of wood. The air cloys heavily with the smell of cedar and salt, the scent of the sea clinging to the ship's weathered planks and it encloses Finch in its heaviness, a casket closing its lid amongst damp, packed earth. As always, he flirts with Murphy, his smooth, honeyed words insinuating how else he could manhandle Finch, and, as always, his advances go absolutely nowhere. It's part of the routine, the waltz of compliance and loyalty while still straining at his leash just enough to nip at the hands just out of reach. It's a rather compelling distraction, too, from the news of his imminent death. 

Jack's maproom is stuffed to the brim with papers and the man himself lounges, a cigarette in hand, and Finch is once again taken aback by the easy confidence of the man that holds his life in his hands. It's to be expected from Jack Barclay, but the sheer command he holds in a room, even one as empty and cluttered as this one, is nearly enough to force Finch to his knees in fear and admiration. Almost. He prepares himself as he walks into the room, forcing his body into an image of easy confidence and competence. His hands hand loose at his side, carefully in-sight so no one accuses him of sticking his fingers where they don't belong. Under his skin, fear and adrenaline thrum, threaded together in an inexorable waltz; today is not the day to push his boundaries with the man, and he hopes his tongue has the common sense to behave itself. As if proving to himself he isn't an utter disrespectful, suicidal moron that bites the hand that feed for fun, he waits for Jack to acknowledge him before speaking. The emptiness of his hands weigh heavy on them, nearly buzzing from the pressure of the lack.

i want to taste you again

"Finch." Jack speaks without opening his eyes, without so much as moving, the cigarette hanging between the fingers of his free hand to leave whorls of smoke twisting through the air around his head. The young thief doesn't need to know how he plucked his arrival out of the ether, and Jack is content to let him imagine that his impressively silent footfalls are nevertheless branded in a rhythm against the Captain's consciousness.

The reality is a rhythm of a different sort. A half-familiar beat of nerves wrestling with frustration alerts him first, each thought setting his web of telepathy to vibrating, until Jack can track the shape of the man approaching his map room with startling clarity. Opening his eyes and dropping his hand from his face at last, one steel-capped boot propped against the table, Jack regards the scarred face and warbling restlessness beneath the surface with a blank expression at first.

His eyes, blue as shards of a Longheat sky, hold Finch hostage for a second or three, then finally move back to the course he'd been charting. Jack drops his boot back to the boards and rolls to his feet, setting the cigarette between his lips. "About time," he says, holding out a hand - calloused and bedecked with rings - in silent expectation as he regards the maps and charts.

He knows. Of course he knows; the absence has been a scream in Finch's thoughts from the moment he stepped over the threshold and into Jack's magic. But there's knowing, and there's hearing it paint the air in word and cadence. And the Captain would like the latter now.

like a secret or a sin

JACK

Finch tries his best to enjoy his last few moments of being alive as Jack rolls to his feet, limber and lithe as a threat hanging in the air. He doesn’t question his uncanny ability to have known exactly where he was in the room, the exact moment he entered, without needing to open his eyes to see; some magic tricks are best undiscovered, and someone who can spy Finch’s silent shadow in the dark is not someone to be questioned. The way his blue eyes pin Finch in their cold and intense gaze reminds him all too presently of Vesper’s, and the more he studies the angles of Jack’s face, the more he can see the family resemblance between the two. For all the flirting he did with the man’s son, though, he wouldn’t dare to apply to Jack, no matter how similar their handsome features.

The man’s hand is a blade in front of him, outward and expecting, rings glinting like a dagger in the low light of the map room. The theatrics of it seem obvious, yet dangerous in the way it’s poised, a dagger in a sheath with a hand rested on it. Finch’s hands are, quite obviously, empty as a waiting grave. None of his pockets hood a bulge large enough to conceal a ledger or anything but a few scattered coins and the tools of his trade. The words must be spoken, nonetheless, as Jack appears to wait, patient as a snake in the grass, for admission of failure.

“The cache was empty,” he says simply, releasing it into the open placing his head onto the executioner’s block. “The lock was old and rusted, like it had been closed for years, but whatever was meant to be inside it was gone.” He refuses to let his dark gaze falter, refuses to bluster and hide behind excuses or reasonings or pleadings of mercy. He did what he was bid and he failed; he would not give Jack the satisfaction of seeing him snivel. His heart picks up a beat, the blood pounding in his ears, but his face stays steeled and impassive. He refuses to die on his knees.

The water nearby ripples as several Echo Sharks glide just beneath the surface, their fins cutting smooth, deliberate paths. As they circle, voices begin to rise from the water, distorted but unmistakably intentional.

“Come closer,” one calls, followed by a warped laugh. Another voice repeats a familiar phrase, tone twisted and coaxing, the words echoing unnaturally across the shore.

The sharks keep their distance, continuing their slow patrol as the voices persist, testing for a response. Whether the sounds are invitation or warning is unclear, but they do not stop watching.

---

Echo Sharks Areas Found: Hollowed Grounds, King's End, Torchline, Maria Mundi, Greatwood — Common A dwarf species of shark known for hunting in packs, the Echo Shark can live in both freshwater and saltwater. They are able to mimic any sound they've heard and band together to increase their range of vocals. The sharks use the words and sounds they've learned to lure unsuspecting prey into the water, where the sharks will then leap up and drag them into the waves. Challenge Rating: Easy HP: 161 | To Hit: +26 | Dmg: 13 Movement: Swim 50 ft.; Surge 70 ft. (short burst); Leap 10 ft. from water SPECIAL SKILLS Coordinated Chorus: when several echo sharks band together, their combined calls carry much farther, drawing targets from great distances; Shoreline Snatch: times leaps with incoming waves to seize prey on docks, rocks, or shallows and drag them seaward; Call-and-Answer Trap: mimics familiar voices or distress signals to coax victims closer to the water’s edge

TRAITS Dual-Water Adaptation: thrives in both freshwater and saltwater; Pack Hunter: coordinated schooling tactics for surround-and-seize strikes; Vocal Mimicry: can reproduce any sound they've heard with startling accuracy; Surf Concealment: uses foam and breaking waves to mask approach; Lateral-Line Sense: detects movement and vibration even in murky water ACTIONS Mimic Call: emits a perfect copy of voices, whistles, or alarms to lure targets; Riptide Rush: a high-speed burst that rams or slashes past, knocking prey off balance; Leap and Drag: erupts from the water to clamp on and haul a victim beneath the waves; Frenzy Swarm: the pack converges, worrying and pulling until the target is subdued

i want to taste you again

That's the thing with a gift (curse?) like telepathy. Despite having known from the moment Finch stepped into the map room that the ledger he'd been counting on for - yep, you got it - the very course he'd been plotting on the chart between them, is missing, Jack hasn't reacted. Hearing it spoken aloud, though, is like permission to light the fuse of his temper, and a muscle feathers in his jaw. His hand, when it closes into a fist, empty, is rimed with ice from the other elements that live in his veins, and he takes a slow, measured breath in through his nose.

"And?" he says quietly, already painfully aware that there's no more to the story, but feeling the need to brand the lesson in place regardless. "What happened when you put out feelers to find out who can reach through locks to steal shit? How'd it go in Torchline's rumour mill when you planted a few seeds 'bout the ledger to see what turned up?"

Jack takes a long drag off his cigarette, his frosty hand dropping back to his side. "You don't know, 'cause you didn't fuckin' do any of that." Hissing out a smoky breath and considering, briefly, giving Finch what he's all but begging for, instead the Captain stalks to the windows of the map room, pinning the echo sharks below with the blue fire of his gaze.

"Vesper can vouch for it?" he asks, clipped now, his back to the thief.

like a secret or a sin

JACK

Through the thick wood of the ship, Finch can hear the luring calls of the Echo Sharks trying to persuade him to give his body to the sea. He thinks, for a moment, that the feeling of the rushing waves swallowing him and the comparatively gentle teeth of the sharks at the rip him apart would be preferable to this. He barely avoids winching as Jack’s quiet words ripping into him, his jaw ticking slightly from how tightly he’s clenching his teeth.

Jack’s anger is a slow simmer, alighting just under FInch’s skin and ticking the temperature of the room up by a few small degrees as a time. Finch knows, from close experience, that an anger that roils under cool eyes and flenched fists is more dangerous than one that explodes an in all-encompassing flame; the quiet has time to subsume, to plot and scheme and nurse itself into something deadly. Jack’s quiet does not make him any less dangerous, and when he moves his back to Finch, the slender thief knows it doesn’t mean his anger has passed. A man as powerful as Jack doesn’t mean surrender when his back is turned — it just means he knows his power is so absolute, so iron and gripping on his prey, that there is no such thing as exposed. Finch can feel the leash tighten on his jugular.

He doesn’t respond to Jack’s questions, knows they weren’t poised for genuine answers and that trying to fill the void they created would only dig him further into his grave. In truth, he hadn’t even thought to do those things, focused more on reporting back to Jack. He was a thief, not a spy, and Vesper’s shadows and uncanny grave spooked him as much as they enticed him. If word got back to him that Finch was sniffing around about who took the haul, more likely than not, it would look like the slippery thief was looking to take the score home rather than find a way to deliver it.

“I can’t speak for him, but he saw the same thing I did,” He dares to say. “I passed his… interrogation. Any other information you’ll have to settle with him.” He said them smooth and quiet, not testy, not an accusation, just a simple explanation of fact. He would not dare speak for Vesper, wouldn’t dare to put words in the mouth of Jack’s son knowing to do so and presume wrong would be worse than lying. “The cache was empty.”

He hoped it wouldn’t be interpreted as backtalk. The all-ten of his fingers-ness was delightful to have.

i want to taste you again

Jack rolls his shoulders as if to convince the tension in them to release its grip. It works, sort of, and he's left simmering at the window of the map room while Finch stands, cowering and thoroughly useless at his back. No further leads, no initiative, no point to him other than to deliver bad news and to stroke his ego with his thoughts. (And he's not complaining about that, but it'd be nice to have something of substance to go with it).

"Fuck," he hisses at last, turning back to the table to flick the ash from his smoke into a glass tray. "This can all wait, then." Reaching out, he pushes a paperweight off the corners of the chart to let it roll itself back up, a scroll as useless as the missing ledger. "Fuck are you still standin' around looking stupid for?" he asks Finch then, snapping his fingers towards the shelves of other scrolls and maps, most of them neatly labelled in the Captain's own hand.

"Grab the one for the Fingers," he says curtly, tightening the old scroll from the table and fastening it with a frayed leather cord, before thrusting it into Finch's hands. "Then get out. No, wait."

While the thief presumably does as he's bade, Jack finds a scrap of parchment and scratches a quick note on it, folding it neatly. "Give that to Murph on your way."

like a secret or a sin

JACK

Finch isn't delusional enough to be relieved, isn't naive enough to assume just because Jack was dismissing him with all his limbs still attached to his body that he was off the hook and able to skip back to Torchline with a happy new assignment and delightful new artifact to steal. The dismissal was sharp-edged and dangerous, the tightrope trick he walks between usefulness and inconvenient growing thinner by the day. As Jack demands the parchment and turns away, Finch scowls slightly at the assumed obedience, at the utter confidence Jack has that Finch will just jump to obey and click his heels in delight to do yet another errand for him. No, not an errand, an implication; Jack has not yet given him a task, just the shape of his anger and the ghost of a threat and an expectation that his little errand boy will jump to please him. The worst part is that Finch probably will.

Under his callused fingers, the parchment is worn and aged, a little warm from the heat and intensity of Jack's hand as it graces his. He studies it for a moment, committing the touch of it to memory before flicking it to Jack's desk, quick as a striking snake. His eyes flash for just a curious moment to the other rolls of parchment on the shelves of the maproom, a treasure trove that any thief would kill and die to grasp. There was absolutely no way he was stealing from Jack twice -- the first time had gone poorly enough for him he'd nearly sworn of a life of crime before it was commandeered for Jack's service -- but his fingers itch to open and learn, to make himself more useful than just a disposable lackey best for bait. Not that he wanted to do that for Jack, anyway. 

His curiosity catches (almost always something that ends in disastrous results) as Jack passes him the note for his erstwhile mate. With a little magician's flick, the note is up his sleeve and out of his sight, and he absolutely intends to stick his nose in it later to see what, exactly, Jack is passing notes about. But the man probably expects him to peek, the note likely scribbled with something like 'throw Finch overboard and let him drown,' or better yet, 'stop snooping you slimy bastard.' He plans to look anyway. 

"Anything else I can do for you?" He asks, an edge of sarcastic resentment creeping into his voice against his better judgement. He's smarter than this, but no, actually, he isn't, and the guillotine has been hanging over his neck for so long he's beginning to grow tired of the shadow. "Any other miracles you wish performed? You have me, so may as well use me," And oh, that came out a little more flirtatious than he intended, not quite there but halfway between bitter and honeyed, the edge of a knife as it balanced in a soft hand. It was only flirtatious of one wished to choose to see it that way, and from every other angle it was shades closer to anger.

i want to taste you again

Suppressing a smirk as Finch's thoughts run riot about the note for Murphy - he had considered scribbling something to the effect of nice try before changing his mind - when the thief does eventually snoop at it, he might be nevertheless disappointed. Written in some bastard child between shorthand and thieves' cant, Finch will only be able to make out the odd few words: cache, islands, delays. Not much, but the flavour of which that will seem similar to the conversation they've just had.

But that's for later. For now, Jack accepts the fresh map of Rae's Fingers without so much as a glance in the thief's direction, promptly unrolling it and weighing down the corners to stop it curling. This is different to any nautical chart, and different still from an ordinary map due to its double layer; thick, inked parchment to show the Fingers at low-tide, and a sheet of transparent paper to overlay it and represent the change in tunnels when the water comes in.

"A miracle'd be if you turned up with my fuckin' ledger," he mutters, and though the words are harsh there's precious little bite in Jack's tone; he's too busy concentrating to care about the end to Finch's usefulness or his angry philandering. Another bit of paper comes out now, the Captain sketching bits and pieces of the tunnels onto it with surprising accuracy, before sliding it across to the younger man.

"Check those," he says. "Ain't as old as the last one you went into find, but they've been there long enough that the locks should be brittle. I just wanna know if they're empty or not - I don't care which, the information is what's important." That's a lie - Jack very much cares if they're empty, but his real point is that Finch won't be flayed just for knowing it. "Lock 'em again when you're done."

like a secret or a sin

JACK

Finch takes the instruction without comment or complaint, committing the commands to memory and trying very, very hard to not be in a bad mood about it. His eyes rove Jack's maps hungrily as the man scribbles, the worn parchment covered in clean lines and careful diagrams undoubtably holding years of forbidden information won by blood or stealth or both. A man can do a lot of damage with those maps, and Finch follows the splotches of dark inch as they weave information into a colorful tapestry of a glimpse of an empire. He was a little surprised Jack was even showing it to him, even with his promise of loyalty; surely Jack, in all his violent wisdom and foresight and eerie knowledge of everything that seems to happen under his empire, knows that Finch would not be seen as the wisest person to display this information to, even in a fleeting glimpse and accompanied by strict orders. It doesn't quite feel like trust, perhaps never will, but it feels like the leash lengthens just a tad. Perhaps it's just more slack to eventually hang him with, though. 

Still, he nods as Jack speaks, already planning and scheming the best way to complete the job. A brittle lock is a gamble for a nimble thief, either an easy mark to wiggle open and make off like a bandit, or so predisposed to freeze up, trapping picks inside and ensuring a very loud struggle to try and break it open would ensue. It wouldn't be hard, per se, but it would be cold and wet and back in the claustrophobic confines of the Fingers where the endless drip of the water would echo in his ears like a clock ticking out the rest of his life. He wonders if he'd have a babysitter again. He wonders if they'll be as handsome as Vesper was. 

"On it, boss," He says instead of any of that, fingers already itching for the feeling of a lock under them. For as precarious as his position is, and for how much he recommends not getting oneself indebted to the most vicious person around, at least Jack is using him for what he's good for. The thrill of the hunt, the careful coaxing of a lock under his fingers, the charming of a target; it was all much more pleasurable than being in the ground somewhere. Being useful is better than being dead. 

He flicks his fingers to his head in a mock salute, a sharp grin sprawling across his face and tugging painfully at his scar in the cold. His guard is not down, never is anymore, but his shoulders slant into an easy curve and his body morphs into something less predatory and more easygoing. His performance of Finch slides back onto him, slick as water off the deck of a boat. "Offer still stands to use me," He says, but it's lighthearted and teasing, fingers darting across an open flame to see if they'll burn.

i want to taste you again

"Make sure you're on it when the tide's out for two of 'em," Jack replies curtly as he starts to roll the map of Rae's Fingers back up, leaving Finch with the piecemeal sketches of the tunnels and their caches. "For the third you'll need to wait for it to come in." Which will involve swimming and all manner of other danger, but that isn't Jack's problem.

The young thief's mind is already twisting like so many pins and tumblers in a lock, and as the Captain steps across to put the scroll with his other maps, he doesn't bother to hide the catlike smirk that curls across his lips. Finch is a sharp tack dealt a bad hand, of that there's no doubt, and if anything Jack has been lucky that he'd found himself in precisely the sort of trouble that put him in his debt - or at least under his thumb for a time.

Of course, like all sharp tacks, there's a burr or two to contend with, and in Finch's case, it's that his mouth won't learn what his mind has already figured out: when to shut the fuck up.

"If I took you up on that offer, that slick confidence would wither quicker than your dick on a cold day," he points out, returning to the table and taking the cigarette from his lips to stub it out in the tray. "So unless you're suddenly braver'n we both know you are, get the fuck off my ship, Finch."

like a secret or a sin

JACK

Yup, alright, that answer was about what Finch anticipated, no surprises there. "You got it boss," He shoots out, grin still laissez-faire and loose, gleeful as a summer's breeze on a hot day. He doesn't know why he takes such pleasure in poking bears and sticking his fingers where they don't belong; one of these days, a digit's going to be bitten off and he'll be ruing his sharp tongue and lack of common sense, but for now, it feels like taking whatever bits of freedom he can when he can get them. And it was fun. With one last sarcastic salute, Finch disappears from the belowdecks, still completely silent under the thudding of his hammering heart. 

As he promised, he peeks into the note Jack handed him for Murphy, only a little disappointed it wasn't a colorful threat promising to make use of his innards for ink and rather a strange scrawl between the familiar figures of Thieves' Cant and some sort of pirate-y shorthand he was too lawful (hah) to understand. He passes it to Murphy with a wink and an offer that he's up for some fun before returning to Torchline. Murphy, enthusiastically and completely surprising, gives no response and takes the note with a lack of reaction that just sends Finch grinning and plotting what he'll say next. 

He'll sweet-talk his way onto some ship back, saving his precious coins for the tavern that night, and land in Torchline with a new mission, a new adventure, and a new dagger to his throat. It was a good thing he knows how to swim.

[FIN]