又到了比爾吉沃特深夜故事時間(?)，好孩子該上床睡覺囉
第二章依然是分成四個Part，同時也預告了會有第三章
這長度，我當然...還是沒有要翻的意思(被踹飛)
不過...不過，這次我有幫忙排版了(?)
英文閱讀還可以的就自己看，不可以就等版上的高手再次降臨吧
送上一張船長帥照，那我們開始吧：http://imgur.com/hKqPbmG
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I’m coughin’ up black. The smoke from the warehouse fire is tearin’ my
lungs to shreds, but I don’t have time to catch my breath. T.F.’s getting
away, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna spend another dog’s age chasin’ him
all over Runeterra. It ends tonight.
The bastard sees me coming. He shoves a couple of dock hands out of the way
and runs off across the wharf. He’s trying to work his escape card, but I’m
keeping the heat on him, so he can’t focus.
More Hooks swarm around, like flies on an outhouse. Before they can block his
path, T.F. tosses a couple of his exploding cards and takes the thugs out. A
few Hooks are an easy fight for him. But I ain’t. I’m comin’ to get my
due, and T.F. knows it. He scurries down the wharf as fast as he can.
His scuffle with the dock boys gives me just enough time to catch up. He sees
me and darts behind a huge hunk of wha
le spine. A blast from my gun shatters his cover, filling the air with shards
of bone.
He answers by trying to take my head off, but I shoot his card in midair. It
explodes like a bomb, knocking us both on our asses. He scrambles to his feet
first and takes off. I fire Destiny as fast as she’ll shoot.
Some Hooks close in on us with chains and cutlasses. I turn quick and blow
their insides out their backs. Before I can hear the wet slap of their guts
on the dock, I’m spinning on my heels. I take aim at T.F., but I’m clipped
by a shot from a pistol. More Hooks, and these are better armed.
I duck behind a piece of an old trawler’s hull to return fire. My gun just
clicks. Gotta reload. I slam some fresh shells into the cylinder, spit my
anger onto the floor, and wade back into the chaos.
All around me, shots and bolts burst through wooden crates. One of ’em tears
a chunk of my ear off. I just grit my teeth and plow forward, squeezing the
trigger. Destiny is chewin’ up everything. One Jagged Hook loses a jaw.
Another is blasted into the bay. A third gets torn into a red sheet of muscle
and sinew.
I snap around to find T.F. escaping deeper into the slaughter docks. I run
past a fishmonger hanging up scavenger eels. One of the beasts is just
skinned, its innards still spillin’ onto the dock. The monger turns on me,
swinging a meat hook.
ＢＯＯＭ！
I take off his leg.
ＢＯＯＭ！
I follow up with a shot to his head.
I shove away a stinking razorfish carcass and keep moving. The blood is ankle
deep, some of it from the fish and some from the Hooks we’ve gunned down. It
’s enough to give a dandy like T.F. fits. Even with me on his tail, he slows
his stride to keep from messin’ up his skirts.
Before I can close in, T.F. kicks on into a gallop. I can feel myself losing
wind.
“Turn and face me!” I holler.
What kind of man don’t own up to his problems?
A noise to my right draws my attention to a balcony holding two more Hooks. I
fire, and the whole thing crashes to the docks.
The gun smoke and debris are so thick, I can’t see a damn thing. I run
toward the sound of his lady boots thudding across the wooden slats. He’s
makin’ for Butcher’s Bridge at the end of the slaughter docks - the only
way off the island. Damned if I’m letting him get away again.
As I reach the bridge, T.F. skids to a halt, halfway across. At first, I
think he’s given up. Then I see why he stopped: On the far side, blocking
his way, there’s a mass of sword-wielding bastards. But I ain’t backing
down.
T.F. turns back only to find me. He’s trapped. He looks over the side of the
bridge, down at the water. He’s thinking about jumping - but I know he won’
t.
He’s all out of options. He starts walking toward me.
“Look, Malcolm. Neither of us needs to die here. As soon as we get out of
this-”
“You’ll run again. That’s all you’ve ever done.”
He don’t answer. Suddenly, he ain’t so worried about me. I turn back to see
what he’s fixed on.
Behind me, I see every lowlife that can carry a blade or pistol storming onto
the docks.
Gangplank must’ve called in all his boys from across the city. To keep going
’s a death sentence.
But livin’ ain’t the most important thing to me today.
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They’re in no rush, the Hooks. Not anymore. They know they have us trapped.
Behind them, it looks like every rat-stabbing cutthroat in Bilgewater has
shown up to the party.
No way back.
On the far end of the bridge, blocking my escape into the maze of Bilgewater’
s slums, is what appears to be the whole Red Caps dock gang. They rule the
east side of the waterfront. Gangplank owns them, just like he owns the Hooks
and nearly the whole damned town.
Behind me, there’s Graves, stomping ever closer. The stubborn son of a bitch
doesn’t care about the mess we’re in. It’s amazing, really. Here we are,
yet again, like all those years ago. Deep in the muck, and he just won’t
listen.
I wish I could tell him what really happened back then, but there’s no
point. He wouldn’t believe me, not for a second. Once something’s lodged in
that thick skull of his, it takes a while to shake it loose. And we don’t
have a while.
I back up to the side of the bridge. Over the rail, I see the winches and
pulleys suspended beneath me - then the ocean far below. My head spins, and
my stomach drops into my boots. As I stagger back to the middle of the
bridge, I get a full view of how bad a spot I’m in.
Looming in the distance is Gangplank’s black-sailed ship. From it, a damned
armada of boats is closing in below, rowing hard. Looks like all of his men
are heading our way.
I can’t get through the Hooks, I can’t get through the Caps, and I can’t
get through Graves’s pig-headedness.
Only one way to go.
I step up onto the railing of the bridge. We’re even higher than I realized.
The wind whips at my coat, making it snap like the sails of a ship. I should
never have come back to Bilgewater.
“Get the hell down from there,” says Graves. Is there a hint of desperation
in his voice?
It’d break him if I died before he got the confession he wants so much.
I take a deep breath. It really is a long way down.
“Tobias,” Malcolm says. “Step back.”
I pause. I haven’t heard that name in a long time.
Then I jump from the bridge.
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The Brazen Hydra was one of the few taverns in Bilgewater that didn’t have
sawdust on the floor. Drinks were rarely spilled, let alone teeth, but on
this night, its patrons could be heard all the way to Diver’s Bluff.
Men of some repute, and even greater means, were turning the air blue with
wondrous songs of the very worst acts.
And there, in the middle of them all, was the conductor of the night’s
revelry.
She twirled, toasting the health of the harbor master and all his watchmen.
Her lustrous red hair whipped around, captivating the eyes of every man in
the room, not that they had been looking at anything other than her.
No glass had been allowed to run empty all night - the crimson-haired siren
made sure of that. But it wasn’t the dulled senses of every man in the room
that drew them closer. It was the promise of her next glorious smile.
With merriment still shaking the tavern, the front door opened, and in
stepped a plainly dressed man. Inconspicuous to a degree that only comes from
years of practice, he walked to the bar and ordered a drink.
Among the clumsily assembled gallery, the young woman grabbed a fresh glass
of amber ale.
“My fine fellows, I’m afraid I must take my leave,” she said with a
flourish.
The men of the harbor guard responded with loud bellows of protest.
“Now, now. We’ve had our fun,” she said, chiding them amiably. “But I
have a busy night ahead, and you are all so very late to your posts.”
She hopped onto a table without missing a beat, before looking down upon them
all with triumphant glee.
“May the Mother Serpent grant us mercy for our sins!”
She smiled her most captivating smile, raised the large tankard to her lips,
and then downed her ale in one tremendous gulp.
“Especially the big ones,” she said, as she slammed her glass on the table.
She wiped the beer from her mouth to a rapturous roar of approval and blew a
kiss to all.
Like servants before their queen, the room parted.
The door was held open for her by the gracious harbor master. He hoped to
garner one last glance of approval, but she was lost to the streets before he
could look up from his unsteadily courteous bow.
Outside, the moon had dipped behind Freeman’s Aerie, and the night’s shadow
seemed to reach out to meet the woman. Each step that she took from the
tavern became more purposeful and surefooted. Her carefree veil dissolved,
and her true self was revealed.
Her smile, her look of wonder and joy, were gone. She stared grimly, not
seeing the streets and alleys around her, but looking far beyond to the many
possibilities of the dark night ahead.
Behind her, the plainly dressed man from the tavern was gaining. His
footsteps were silent, yet unnervingly swift.
In a measured heartbeat, he put his stride in perfect unison with hers, just
off her shoulder, out of her periphery.
“Is everything in place, Rafen?” she asked.
After all these years, he was still taken aback at how he could never
surprise her.
“Yes, Captain,” he said.
“You weren’t spotted?”
“No,” he bristled, reining in his displeasure at the question. “The bay
was free from the harbor master’s eyes, and the ship was as good as empty.”
“And the boy?”
“He played his part.”
“Good. We meet at the Syren.”
At her word, Rafen broke away and disappeared into the gloom.
She continued onward as the night wrapped itself around her. Everything was
in motion.
All that remained was for her players to begin the show.
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I hear Graves roar as I dive off the bridge. All I can see is the rope
beneath me. No need to think about the fall or the bottomless black depths.
Everything is a blur of rushing wind.
I nearly scream with joy when I catch the rope, but then it burns into my
palm like a branding iron. My fall stops with a snap as I slide to the bottom
of the looping tether.
I hang there a moment, cursing.
I’ve heard that dropping into water from this height normally won’t kill a
man, but I’d rather take my chances on the stone loading dock that’s at
least fifty feet straight down. I’ll die, but it’s a damned sight better
than drowning.
Between me and the stone platform, a pair of heavy-duty cables run from here
to the mainland, one forward, one back. Crude, noisy mechanisms power them.
They’re used to transport rendered down parts of sea beasts to the markets
in Bilgewater proper.
The cables strum as a heavy rusted bucket, as big as a house, grinds its way
toward me.
I let a smile creep on my face for a second. That is, until I see what’s in
the cart. I’m about to drop feet first into a seething vat of rotting fish
spleen.
It took me months to earn the coin for my boots. Supple as gossamer and
sturdy as tempered steel, they were crafted from the hide of an abyssal sea
drake. There are fewer than four pairs in the whole world.
Damn it.
I time my jump just right and land in the middle of the chum bucket. The cold
slop seeps through every hand-stitch of my prized boots. At least my hat’s
clean.
Suddenly, I hear that damned gun bark again.
The mooring line explodes.
The cart groans as it slides free from the cables. The wind’s knocked out of
me as the bucket slams into the stone platform. I feel the foundations of the
dock shake before everything flips on its side.
The world falls over my head, along with a ton of fish guts.
Struggling to stand, I look for another way out. Gangplank’s launches are
closing in. They’re nearly here.
Dazed, I drag myself toward a small boat moored on the loading dock. I’m not
halfway there when a shotgun blast rips its hull wide open, scuttling it.
As the boat sinks, I drop to my knees, exhausted. I try to catch some breath
over my own stench. Malcolm stands over me. Somehow, he made his way down,
too. Of course he did.
“Not so charmin’ now, are ya?” Graves grins, looking me up and down.
“Are you ever gonna learn?” I say, rising to my feet. “Every time I try to
help you, I-”
He fires into the ground in front of me. I’m pretty sure I get a chunk of
something in my shin. “If you’d just list-”
“Oh, I’m all done listenin’,” he interrupts, grinding out the words. “
The biggest score of our lives, and before I knew it, you were gone.”
“Before you knew it? I told you-”
Another blast, another shower of stone, but I’m past caring.
“I tried to get us out. The rest of us saw the job was going south,” I say.
“But you wouldn’t back down. You never do.” The card’s in my hand before
I realize it.
“I told you then, all you had to do was back me up. We would’ve gotten out
clean – and rich. But you ran,” he says, stepping forward. The man I used
to know seems lost under years of hatred.
I don’t try to say anything else. I can see it in his eyes, now. Something’
s broken inside of him.
Over his shoulder, a glint catches my eye - it’s a flintlock. The first of
Gangplank’s crewmen are on us.
Without thinking, I flick the card. It slices toward Graves.
His gun thunders.
My card takes out Gangplank’s man. His pistol was leveled at Malcolm’s
back.
Behind me, another member of his crew slumps to the ground, a knife in his
hand. If Graves hadn’t shot him, he could’ve had me, cold.
We both look at each other. Old habits.
Gangplank’s men are all around now, crowding in close, howling and jeering.
There’s too many to fight.
That doesn’t stop Graves. He brings his gun up, but he’s out of shells.
I don’t draw any cards. There’s no point.
Malcolm roars and goes at them. That’s his way. He shatters one bastard’s
nose with the butt of his gun, before the mob beats him to the ground.
Hands grab me, pinning my arms. Malcolm’s hauled to his feet, blood dripping
from his face.
Ominously, the hoots and hollers from the mob around us fall silent.
The wall of thugs parts to reveal a red-coated figure striding toward us.
Gangplank.
Up close, he’s much bigger than you’d imagine. And older. The lines of his
face are deep and chiseled.
He’s holding an orange in one hand, slicing off its skin with a short-bladed
carving knife. He’s doing it slow, making each cut count.
“So tell me, boys,” he says. His voice is a deep, rumbling growl. “Do you
like scrimshaw?”
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To Be Continued....