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Sometimes he couldn’t help it.
Sometimes too little was too much, and too much was too little, and Reginald had developed ways of dealing with the stress of it all
In moments when the silence got deafening, you could find him in the cafeteria.
The cafeteria was always loud and always busy, to a degree, even at night.
Especially at night.
Reginald never really talked to anyone or ate anything, rather finding a table he could keep to himself, in the corner. Some days he’d be reading a book; The Silver Sword was the one he was seen with the most.
Other times he’d sit and do crosswords, God only knows for how long.
Time seemed to pass differently when he was around.
No-one ever talked to him, people barely acknowledged him if he came wandering by.
There were many reasons for this, but they boiled down to fear of losing a place in the clan, and to avoid the inevitable wrath of the Right Hand Man for disturbing the boss for no good reason.
Wherever Reginald was, he seemed to follow and hover around like a bird of prey.
Always on the lookout.
In the moments when the noise was too much, he’d leave.
Nobody ever followed.
The crew had the sense to call in someone else to pilot the airship in his absence, and never question why he left in the first place.
The Right Hand Man would always stay in the cockpit on these occasions, he’d oversee the crew and God forbid he ever saw anyone chase after Reginald, regardless of the reason.
They had no reason to when he was around.
There was a reason he was the Right Hand Man, after all.
The times he left, no-one ever really seemed to know where he went.
Some reported seeing him wander the airship corridors aimlessly, others claimed to see him going into other peoples’ quarters, but those were mostly labelled attempts to defame Reginald made by those who desperately wanted a different leader.
Or those who wanted Henry back.
When asked, the Right Hand Man dismissed it as ‘slander’, and yelled at anyone from then on to bring any such rumours into conversation.
The most common sighting was him, unusually enough, in the brig.
Or, well, in the library looking for books.
Both instances usually involved him talking in hushed tones, to the prisoners or to himself.
To all crewmates aboard the ship, this was as peculiar as it was regular.
Normalised behaviour.
Everyone agreed, unanimously, that Reginald was a bit eccentric, and that’s okay.
***
Sometimes there came a time it wasn’t too little nor too much, but Reginald had started to lose his grip and he needed something to keep him grounded.
It was always when darkness fell.
There was a reason he never took the night shift;
What good’s a night pilot that’s afraid of the dark?
He was sat up in bed again.
There was a lamp on the bedside; he didn’t want to turn it on.
He was too scared.
He’d started scratching again.
On his arms, up near his shoulders, but mostly on the backs of his hands.
His star-patterned pyjamas saved his arms from most of the damage, but at this point he’d scratched the backs of his hands raw. They stung something awful, and still he didn’t want to leave his bed.
He knew he should have slept with his gloves on.
…
He stared across the room at their hanging silhouette, and felt it staring back.
“Fuck.”
His voice was so soft, so small, and he never cursed out loud.
Trembling slightly, he gripped his sheets a little tighter.
There was nothing wrong. He didn’t feel in danger, he didn’t feel overwhelmed, but he felt something.
That something was something very, very wrong.
He pushed his covers back and swung his legs over the side of his mattress, willing himself to get up.
He couldn’t. He felt he couldn’t. But he did.
The room was dark and the numb buzzing feeling deep in his chest was creeping up again, he was at least ready to leave… but he paused near the door.
His hand, right hand, the one that wasn’t so scratched, hung over the red phone beside the doorframe.
And it didn’t move any farther.
Calling his Right Hand Man would mean swallowing his pride. He could do it and it’d all be over at the drop of a hat.
Sadly, Reginald was too imperious to do that without choking and stuttering.
He left the room.
***
Seeing the boss roaming the airship in his bedclothes was a rare sight indeed, but nobody stopped him. Nobody would have had the chance.
He was moving too fast.
He’d forgotten his gloves.
He wished he hadn’t scratched his hand so much.
He regretted not calling for his Right Hand Man.
He regretted so many things and he couldn’t stop thinking, he just wanted to stop thinking and he couldn’t, he just couldn’t.
He wasn’t going to cry.
He wasn’t going to cry.
He wasn’t.
His eyes were burning.
He knew he should probably do something about how much his hand was screaming for his attention, but he couldn’t. He needed something… to be somewhere.
Where?
He didn’t know.
There was a first aid kit in the cockpit, but he didn’t want to go in there.
Not like this.
Tears were threatening to spill down his cheeks, but still he tried to keep his composure.
Even though he probably looked like a mess.
Lucky it was night time.
No-one was around to ask if he was okay, both a blessing and a curse.
Even though, if anyone saw him crying, they probably wouldn’t say anything anyway.
They never said anything anyway.
He passed a few people, walking without direction; they all kept their heads down when they passed him.
Maybe they were busy, maybe they wanted no trouble.
Each one of them made the feeling grow, the desire to Get Out, to get away and to a place he didn’t know existed yet.
The brig.
He went to the brig when he needed quiet.
Or a conversation that didn’t feel to have any strings attached.
Mindless conversations with strangers he found to be ok if he could just get past the small talk.
He passed the cockpit with guilt settling in his gut.
It was eating him away.
The brig didn’t make him feel any better.
If anything it made him feel worse, much worse.
“Wha-“
The first thing he saw when he walked through the door was his Head of Communications holding hands with a security guard through the slot of a cell door, looking like a deer caught in headlights.
His world began to tilt.
Everything was blurry.
***
As soon as he heard reports of the boss walking around after hours, the Right Hand Man was out of the cockpit and all over the ship.
He made no secret of the fact he was looking for Reginald.
His usual air of casualness had been broken.
The first place he checked was his quarters, for obvious reasons.
He wasn’t there. All the lights were off and his gloves still hung from their hook.
But the door was open.
Next he checked the cafeteria.
The only person there was the Head of Communications.
Looking forlorn.
“Ay!”
“Yes, Chief?”
“’Ave you seen Reg around?”
A beat passed.
“Yeah, actually. I saw him when I was in the brig.”
The Right Hand Man didn’t ask what the Head of Communications was doing in the brig.
“I don’t know where he went after that.”
He tipped his hat and bid Burt Curtis goodbye.
The funny thing was, the brig was a dead end.
If Reginald was in the brig, at whatever point, he’d have to have gone back where he came from.
Even with his cybernetic enhancements, searching all the possible places he could be was a chore, exhausting his energy reserves.
He wasn’t in the cafeteria, he wasn’t in the library.
The longer he searched, the colder his leads got.
Until he was hit with the chilling realisation that it’s entirely possible he isn’t even on the airship at all any more.
No.
He refused to follow that train of thought any further.
…
Well, none of the escape pods were missing at least.
A check-in with admin told him none of the external doors had been opened at all.
Reginald had simply disappeared.
He was really starting to worry now.
He’d come full circle—he was back at the brig again.
Still he had no idea where Reginald could be.
Taking off his top hat, he scratched the back of his neck, pulling at his mullet—a nervous habit.
He made sure never to do that with his cybernetic hand.
There were still scars back there from when he last made that mistake.
He just wanted peace of mind; he just wanted to know where Reginald was.
Standing in the brig.
Looking lost.
There was a knock behind him.
…
The security guard.
He narrowed his one good eye at him, until he realised.
He was pointing to a door, past him.
Down the hall.
A maintenance closet.
…
He nodded.
The palm of his left hand was clammy against the handle.
He opened the door.
Reginald looked up at him from where he was sat, on the floor.
A flood of emotions, overpowered by a bittersweet sense of relief.
“Reg…”
Reginald sighed.
“I should have just called you.”
In the sparse light coming from the cracked door, he slumped further against the wall, tightening his grip on his legs.
His chin rested on his knees.
“I’m sorry.”
The Right Hand Man jerked ambiguously.
The light was on, and he was sat next to Reginald.
A safe distance away.
He didn’t mind if the floor made his trousers dusty.
“It’s okay.”
Reginald lifted his head slightly.
Shook it.
“I worried you. I can tell.”
He could always tell.
The Right Hand Man drummed his fingers on his crossed leg.
“You did.”
He didn’t deny it.
“I did.”
“At least you’re okay.”
“I suppose.”
…
“What was it this time?”
“I don’t know. The dark.”
The Right Hand Man hummed.
“It’s dark in here, too.”
Reginald didn’t respond.
For a second.
“It was the suffocating feeling again.”
He trailed off.
“I don’t know.”
His arms fell loose.
Gesturing slightly.
He couldn’t find the right words.
He didn’t really need to.
“I panicked. I didn’t know what to do.”
…
“I didn’t want to call you. You were probably busy.”
…
The Right Hand Man nodded.
“I was busy. You can still call me when I’m busy.”
Reginald only looked at him.
“I don’t mind.”
“But what if something happens? While you’re not there?”
“What about what if it does? There’s other people to take care of things.”
A beat passed.
“That phone’s in your room for a reason.”
A moment of silence.
“We should get you back to your room.”
He held out his hand, his right hand.
Reginald took it.
“Your hand’s cold.”
The Right Hand Man only smiled.