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“Yeah, well, yo mama so fat, when she installs a new upgrade, the universe’s steel reserves are depleted.”
It's recreation time at the infamous, highly exclusive Durmstrang Institute, and the most beautiful young scions of the ruling Houses of the Red Empire are exercising their intellects. Even inside an elite institution there are elite cliques, and the most elite clique of all occupy the second most prestigious place - the helmsman’s cabin in the stern castle of the massive spaceship the educational institution calls a home away from home. As always in cases like this, the group consists of both students and staff, all equally devoted to the pursuit of one object - being as cool as humanly possible. Of course this means that all the young men are very dark and brooding, and all the young women are very gorgeous and devil may care.
“Aaah…” Confounded, largely due to the amount of gin he's put back in the last hour, Viktor Krum, world famous steam-powered sportsman, struggles to craft a reply to his best friend's assertion regarding his mother. It matters not that Humanity has conquered the sea of stars, its nature remains the same, and, lacking any other response, he defaults to violence, leaping at his pal like a clockwork ape and knocking him off the dark wood table he's sitting on.
“Hey! I'm drinkin' champagne here!”
Chimping out proceeds to the general amusement of the rest of the party, who gawp and cackle at the men crashing this way and that, their honed bodies sliding over very important navigational maps to the tune of gothic organ music. At least, all cackle except the most beautiful female of the lot, a small blonde shaped like a divinity, who stands up and flicks her wand at the scufflers, not to separate them, but to save the champagne. The coupe glass the joker is holding in one hand as he punches Viktor with the other, flies away from him, as if yanked out of his grip by Aphrodite herself. Once it is in the girl's possession, she sits back down and returns to browsing a book of brass horse breeds, the envious eyes of her companions on her.
When recreation time is over, most of the sleek specimens leave the cabin, all except Yuri, he of the epic yo mama joke, Viktor ‘Krazy’ Krum, and Alina, she who saved the ambrosia of the gods.
Speaking of which…
A shadow interrupts the golden light projected by the oil lamps, and throws itself across her lap aggressively. “May I have my glass back.” It's not framed as a question, because it isn't.
Alina turns a page, enjoying the crinkle of the paper as another shadow merges with the first and a replica of the heavens spins by over her head, each planet and star a masterpiece of craftsmanship. Gold, silver, ivory, precious gems and all other good things went into it, and it's been functioning perfectly for the last thousand years. One, of course, does not stage a genuine fight in the helmsman's cabin, or anywhere the people who prevent the ship crashing live, do their work, or keep their gear, and her friends are nothing if not theatrical. Instead of answering, she plucks Yuri's glass from a brass side table, and takes a sip, cute and malicious as a cat.
The men standing over her shift their weight, knocking their arms together before swaying back into stillness.
“I don't believe it's wise for the helmsman to consume alcohol whilst on duty.” Helen of Moscow says, eventually, her soft and silken voice causing her listeners to bend forward unconsciously.
Viktor performs a Wronski Feint into the conversation. “He's not on duty. The ghost is.”
“He's going to be on duty soon, and I'd rather not be spaced by a random comet.”
“I'm always on duty,” drawls Yuri. “Now, wench, give me back my glass, unlawfully taken.”
The insult carves a smile across the desired one's fair face. Oh, do men not realise when they're making admissions? “We go by barter here, Yurochka. Give me a star, and you can have your glass back.” Alina declares.
Quiet settles upon the trio, quiet enlivened only by the whirring of devices, the creaking of the ship, and the crack Viktor's neck makes when he turns his head to stare longingly at the door. Flirting is some sort of foreign language definitely not taught at Durmstrang, yet everyone seems proficient in it except for himself. Courtship is an energetic, subtle dance whose esoteric steps are a mystery. Some people, like his best friends, seem born knowing how to perform it, while others, such as himself, can only hope to spastically make moves that vaguely mimic the real thing.
Thirty seconds later, a pair of military looking men stride up the many decks of the ship, climbing stairs as they approach the main one, passing other strictly buttoned up warriors as they go. Grim character breaks as friends and acquaintances pause to slap each other on the back in manly comradery before carrying on. The captain is nowhere to be seen, but why would he be seen? He's got important things to do, namely catching up on his beauty sleep. What is a captain for anyway, besides for looking amazing? All a steamship needs is a boiler and attendants, a cook and assistants, and a helmsman and his apprentice. Occasionally it needs to blow things up, but that is the task of the rank and file student.
“You can't just steal a star, man.” Viktor speaks after several minutes of contemplation while his heterosexual life partner fondles the gigantic ship's wheel, the man's ghost apprentice whispering in his ear about headings and star charts. Behind all three stands the stern castle, while in front stand two out of three massive masts, protected from the ravages of the void by incredible technology. Space itself is black as hell, and they may as well be sailing at lightspeed through an ocean of ink. Nothing moves, and only the highly specialised art of navigation can tell a person what the heck is going on. But Viktor couldn't care less about that nerd shit unless his help is required.
“Don't worry, I have a permit.” Turning away from the ghost (of a young Spaniard with a missing arm) Yuri rummages around in a pocket and hands his mate a scrap of parchment torn from a hated rival's Doctorate of Magi-Mechanical Engineering.
Viktor stares at it for a beat, wondering if he can read, his brass eye zooming in and out, before looking up. “This just says ‘I can do whatever I want’."
Regardless, charts are duly consulted, a heavy steam playlist is popped on the ship’s sound system, the anchors are weighed, the spokes of the helm are grasped and the sails drop and fill with solar wind. The enormous ship leaps forward through the blind abyss. The benefit of being burdened with a delinquent captain? He barely pays any attention to anything. Let him not make a flamboyant entrance onto the main deck whilst his number two is taking liberties though. But such a bad end can be circumvented by stationing a pair of men outside his cabin with luxury gift baskets in hand, a cunning provision which Yuri has already made.
⭐🌟⭐
The glorious light of a yellow star in its prime throws into stark relief multi tiered towers of metallic cloth the way a stray sunbeam casts into silhouette a great white shark. A tiny thing, a mere speck compared to the star, though in reality a beast of a machine approaches, its sharply bowed brass and wood hull demolishing anything foolish enough to get in its way. The sun is unclaimed territory, allegedly, but when its light lifts the eternal darkness found in the vast majority of space, the boys at the wheel are able to discern with their own eyes that other people have been given insane tasks by their lady loves also. Another heavy steamship is sailing about it, her flag bearing an unknown insignia, and Lord knows the School of War asks no questions.
“Ready on the guns!” Yuri calls, rapidly spinning the wheel, the gold threaded rope wound around the mechanism winding through the ship all the way to the stacked engines, which tilt and turn the ship, plunging it ‘downwards’ towards its foe.
“Ready on the guns!!” calls Viktor, although he’s standing only a foot away from the acting captain and his fellow pupils are already obeying.
A sudden solar flare seeks to impede the engagement of the belligerents, but Durmstrang, by means of studly manpower on the capstan, rolls up its sails and carries on charging, while its rival flounders in the stellar storm. An impossibly short, unbelievably long amount of time later, the gargantuan warship turns side on to its foe, presenting its gun studded flank. Up close it is seen to consist of a mixture of the ugly and the grotesque with the splendourous and the sublime, it being one of the legendary ghost ships of the void, feared for its nasty tendency to appear out of nowhere, envied for its pearlescent patina. The passengers lounging about on its target’s main deck ooh and ah at its old fashioned masts and its triple headed dragon figurehead, getting out their clockwork cameras and snapping away.
The acting captain, his hands keeping the helm steady, studies the approach.
“Orders, sir.” Asks the ghost.
“Fire.” Is the answer.
Proving he’s more than just a pretty face, Viktor turns and begins a game of Chinese Whispers, the only one it is impossible to muck up. “FIRE!”
“FIRRRRRRE!”
“FIRE!!!!”
“FYYYYYRE!!!” Goes the call along the main to lower gun decks, prime specimens of aristocratic man-flesh putting flames to blackpowder wicks. Clockwork cannon roar and throw themselves backwards, Durmstrang boys and girls clap their hands to their ears, and laugh. The benefits of having no boring mature adult at the helm, hey?
Meanwhile, downstairs, the captain’s door bangs open, and Captain-Professor Karkaroff steps out of his stateroom, disturbed by the noise.
“What is this damn racket?! Yu-” His icy eyes land upon a bottle of wine nestled amongst fresh grapes of every colour, as well as all the other delights occupying the gift basket one of his stone faced students is holding. “...Mmm! Is that a bottle of ‘92 I spy?” After swiping the bottle and levitating the baskets into his cabin, he slams the door shut.
Above deck, the other ship, which makes not a single attempt to fire back, promptly explodes, to the raucous cheers of hundreds of children and teenagers, as well as the lone young adult and ghost.
⭐🌟⭐
“So the star is ours…now what?” Viktor, sunglasses on and victory beer in hand, stands and observes the giant ball of flame taking up his entire view, as well as all his ancestors and descendants' views, it's so damn large. Behind him the cruise ship they attacked continues to burn, silently.
“Now-” his buddy lets go of the wheel and whips out his wand, stomping over to the weathered railing and pointing it at the sun (unavoidable). “-We turn it ring sized. Reducio!”
“Ha-” Viktor is about to laugh mockingly, and thus precipitate another fight, when his voice catches in his throat.
Having not participated in the battle, Alina enjoyed a grand old tete-a-tete with her book, leading to her making a shortlist of her top five most wanted horse breeds. She’s busy determining which of her admirers to allocate the buying of three to and who to give two, when the door of the helmsman’s cabin opens and her pair of boy friends flounce in.
“Aah!” She gasps, covering her eyes reflexively as an incredible heavenly light assails them. Being still in mortal fleshbag form, she is not able to bear it.
“Give me my glass back, wench!” Yuri says, as the miniature sun he’s holding evaporates what remains of his champagne.
While that’s occurring, Viktor’s guardian angel taps him on the shoulder, placing into his mind a fully formed Scheme. When that has no effect, the angelic being kicks the young man in the ass. That does the trick. Swiping the blazing ring from his best mate’s hand, the superstar performs a move worthy of his daredevil tricks on the field, getting down on one knee with the piece of ruinously expensive jewellery held forth in offering.
“Lina, I love you. Marry me.”
…What woman can say no to a star?