Venture to Uncertainty (#1)

05 | The Calculation of Uncertainty

The wind was absent as Archer came from belowdecks, watching a beautiful sunset falling back below the horizon. The only person on deck was Nelson, the young boy, still watching vigilantly from the crow's nest. Which, of course, meant Archer's trio was already down one. A perfect start to the perfect trip.

Something touched his foot, causing him to startle back. It was a cat, concerningly old and matted. It curled around his leg, looking up at him expectantly.

Archer glanced around. Ship cats weren't unusual, but this one didn't match the well-kept, alluring nature of the Avourienne. He wondered if it had crept on, somehow.

He knelt. Animals couldn't be evil, could they? He reached out to touch the mud-stained fur on the top of the cat's head. It gave him no response, no indication of joy whatsoever. Still, it didn't back away, so Archer reached forward to work out a few of the knots near its neck. Just when he thought the cat may have started purring, it was overtaken by some sort of chorus coming from the common room.

Sighing, he stood once more, abandoning the cat by the rail. It followed him for a moment but snuck away in favour of something else when he came up to the source of the noise. He pushed through the swinging doors, glancing around.

He found he much preferred the quiet deck to this room, with the musty smell of cigars and the reek of liquor. The entire atmosphere was loud and barbaric; he couldn't form a single thought with that song still being shouted from the far side of the room.

"Good evening, Kingsley."

He jumped a little at Britter's greeting. The strategist's eyes still managed to sparkle in the dark as he leaned against the wall next to a rum barrel. "You've got all your stuff situated?"

Archer glanced at him. "I murdered most of what I came with."

Britter only grinned. "Most of us did."

Archer didn't want to spend another second near the strategist; the fake friendliness didn't bode well. He looked around for the people he'd planned to latch onto—Denver and the navigator, lounging on one of the couches. He walked over, muttering an excuse to leave the strategist by the rum barrel.

"Archer!" Denver exclaimed. "Glad you came!"

Attempting a smile, Archer sat down. He was still thinking about Britter, though, so he immediately missed the opportunity to insert himself into whatever conversation was going on. Rusher was talking about some long-lost map, so he settled for listening. The navigator spoke passionately, but there was something fake about him, too. It took root in those light eyes, the cunning smile. As absurd as it sounded, it was almost as if Britter and Rusher were...too good-looking. In fact, everyone on the Avourienne was oddly unique; they'd be complete standouts in a normal crowd. Was it some sort of requirement to get on board, or perhaps a by-product of a lacking conscience?

Maybe they weren't physically as good-looking as they appeared. Confidence was a mind-bending trait, and enough of it could completely alter perception. Archer had to remember that; as exhilarating as these people may appear, it was all just smoke and mirrors, fake just as it was real.

The hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle, inflicting the feeling of being watched. He glanced up, but no one was looking his way. He searched the crowd through the smoke, placing names and descriptions. He leaned back a little to see the bridge crew, lounging on a couch slightly higher than the rest. Bates and the quartermaster were in an argument over the poker game they were playing, shouting at each other like mindless children. Bardarian was inspecting his cards, and Silta was behind him, looking senselessly bored with one arm slung over the back of the couch.