Chapter Text
There was a peculiar saying in Bilgewater – enough rumours make the poor bastard a truth enough. Sarah Fortune had never taken full stock of that particular tenant, as accurate as it sometimes proved to be. There was a certain integrity to allowing one to speak their own truth than listen to fragmented bits of perception. Once upon a time she’d half been tempted to make it into the Captain’s creed.
But she was starting to believe this one. It was circulating on her own damn Syren afterall.
They’d been on the waves close to two weeks now, following the trail of a Noxian deserter looking to make their new name in blood. A fragmented story of swords, a magic artefact from some dank hole in Shurima, and a man high off freedom had been their bread trail. A rather lengthy one that took them from the shores of Ruug, to Fae’lor, now through to the strange too-bright waters of Zhyunia.
Sarah knew; there were at least two other crews on the Noxian’s tail. The reward for his head, dead or alive, was generous, and Tidemother knew Filly’O Kiarne and swift kid Veiser preferred the former. But she had her own trick ace. Rather, a brand new gunbunny.
One that apparently couldn’t swim.
Rafen snorts over his logbook, feather-pen never ceasing movement. “You can’t just chuck her overboard.”
“Why not? If she sinks then it’s problem solved.”
A whistle. “Why Captain, that’s awfully unkind o’ya. Thought you two were thick as thieves.”
Sarah rolls her eyes, blows a stray strand of red hair from them. “You ever heard of a pirate that can’t swim? An alive one?”
“Oh, I see. You’re worried about our new bunny.” He swishes the feather-pen. It was a gorgeous piece, plucked from one of the strange, star-touched birds of Targon’s great mountains. Almost older than the Syren itself, and an object of slight envy. “Knew ya had a soft spot for little blue.”
Which was, objectively, quite true. As much as she wishes it wasn’t. Favouritism was a terrible look for a Captain of her calibre. It wasn’t quite her fault, either. Fishbones had a terrible way of worming into hearts, hers or otherwise.
Rafen, certainly, was also afflicted. Just three weeks as a crewmate and her gun bunny was irreplaceable.
So Sarah simply sniffs, affecting haughtiness. “I shan’t dignify that with a response.”
“Mmh, and Kiara says you haven’t fucked, huh.” At her warning look, he chuckles, raises his hands in surrender. “If it’s such a concern, why don’t y’just ask her?”
“I’m sure that’ll go over well.” Sarah grumbles.
“Better than watching her sink below the waves, eh?”
She finds her swinging in her hammock, singing a jaunty tune.
Hers was tucked away from the forecastle, between the barrels of gunpowder and canons, and resembled a nest more than anything else. The corner she was claimed was well and truly such, neon paint splashed in the corners, stacked upon crates filled with her cogs and gears and pieces of gadgets, ruffled blankets and at least two monstrous looking weapons propped up in corners.
It was fitting, really. Sarah couldn’t imagine where else Fishbones would settle in her ship.
“Blue braids.” Sarah hums. Despite the fact the woman no longer had braids, she turns the same.
“Boss! Ahoy!” She kicks a leg up. Waves it, hands busy around a— mechanical something. “Need somethin’ from little old me?”
“Just a question, doll.” Sarah cocks her hip. Peers at her lithe, whipcord form. “What… are you doing? You’re supposed to be in the nest.”
A shrug. The thing in her hands goes tick. “Didn’t specify which nest. Supposed to be answerin’ your question now, right? Doesn’t matter anymore.”
Perfectly bizarre logic. Sarah shakes the fond smile from her face. “Maindeck, come.”
She swings her skinny legs down onto the wooden decking, skipping to follow Sarah’s long strides. They emerge up the stairs into the miserably grey day, the ocean below a stern, foreboding dark.
Fishbones sniffs the air. “Storm.”
“Right on.” She weaves past Chan and Lews, heading to the captain’s quarters. “Which made me think— come in, blue braids,” The door shuts behind them both. “Can you swim?”
The woman freezes. Pink hued eyes going wide. “Uh. Right. Hmm. That ol’ nugget, eh? Well, you know… Don’t get mad?”
A big, fat, resounding no.
Sarah sighs through her nose. “Dollface, did you not think it was something to mention?”
“Not really?”
She jerks a hand to the portside window. “We’re surrounded by water.”
“Right. Yeah.” She awkwardly scratches her nape. “Just, uh, the thing is— trencherfolk don’t swim.”
Circling around her desk, Sarah sits down. Gestures a hand to the opposite chair, and gets Fishbones’ oddly frantic headshake in return.
The woman’s hands just fiddle with the thing in her hands. Sarah watches her digits, flying fast over the mystery mechanics. Wonders, and wonders, and remembers the golden rule.
“Oka-y. Care to elaborate?”
A jittery shrug. “Most fisherfolk don’t climb outta the fissures long enough to get to the ocean. Y’get into any water down in Zaun proper you get out, ‘cause most like it’s gonna eat your skin or squishy bits. That or sumps, or the run off, or the bad rain. Water’s fucked.”
It’s not to say Sarah Fortune had never been to Zaun. A handful of bounties and jobs had taken her a handful of times into the sunless streets of the city-state. And it was not to say that Sarah Fortune was unaware of the viciousness of Zaun – the survival of the fittest in the most choking air she’d ever had the displeasure of breathing.
But out of Fishbones’ mouth it was different. More real, perhaps, than just the brief jaunt through Zaun’s highest levels.
She palms the bridge of her nose. “Well, sweetheart, you’re a crewmate of the Syren, now.”
“Am I getting kicked? Off?” Fishbones blurts. Looks a little queasy at the thought. And tensed, as if she was about to be literally kicked.
Odd, as reactions went. She doesn’t linger on it.
“No, my dear. No. We’ll just need you to find your sealegs.” Sarah looks her up and down. “You don’t mind getting wet, do you?”
The slightly flushed, twisted-up face she gets back is almost worth the trouble of asking.
“N-no? But—” The twist turns into a grimace, “Just, uh.”
Sarah softens, just a little. “It doesn’t have to be now. But you’ll need to learn. I can’t have my gun bunny water-shy.”
“Aye, boss.” She says, and still looks unsettled.
The storm sweeps through, battering the Syren, and Sarah stands on the maindeck amid the lashing water, wondering on toxic rain and polluted runoff.
She doesn’t see Fishbones above deck until the sky is clear and decides.
“Y’look like a drowned cat.” Kiara ‘Soup-eye’ Jones snorts.
“Thanks.”
Beside her with a leering grin, Rafen shakes his head. “No, no Mittens never looks so inelegant.”
“Gee, really.”
Jorey, smiling that charming thing, leans over the gunnel to get a better look. “No, no, lads. Not a cat. More drowned bunny, eh? Wonder if you’ll poof up fluffy like ‘em too.”
Fishbones scowls at them all, drenched in seawater, laying akimbo on the launch. Post swim attempt number sixteen. Zhyunia's bright waters certainly lived up to the stories – the ocean was a gorgeous colour in the clear air, crisp and inviting.
Though not, apparently, to her gun bunny.
“Y’know, been tortured before and this is worse. Dumb salt-licking— and I’m not a cat!” She hits her fists against the launch. Voice pitching into a whine, “Why the hell ar’you snipes not swimming too?”
A chorus of responses from the rest of the crew. Hooting and hollering when she gives them a metal-middle finger. Sarah Fortune claps her hands to silence their crowing. Grins, and feels ever so slightly vindictive for it.
“Come now doll, we know you can try again.” Another round of hooting. Fishbones keeps her eyes settled on Sarah, burning vibrantly.
“Can you just kick me?”
She winks back. “No pirates life for you?”
A wet, dark blue head thunks against the launch.
“Ugh.”