Chapter Text
“We are on the Orphaner’s flagship to do two things,” you said, again, for the third time. Your band watches in interest – Khenna on the pluckpillar, Spinze on the hidedrums, even the ones on the very back of the tour-scuttlebuggy. But your eyes linger for a second longer on Mituna and Porrim, of course, because they are not officially part of the band, and more in it for the rebellion you’re planning. “One: entertain the Orphaner. Two: free his crew.”
“Sure, Cro,” Mituna grins. He’s sprawled on the seat on your right, easily leaning on the window (that could not be comfy) while his hand pokes you on the shoulder. “Your musicians will distract the fish-stick so hard, us roadies will be able to poke and prod wherever we want.”
“Absolutely, Tune,” you say, flashing him a fond grin back, “There’ll be people on deck who’ll be just as loyal to the Empress as the Orphaner himself, so be careful.”
You turn to your musicians and roadies. All clad in black with gray and white accents, no one is above or below you; the only authority here is yourself as the leader of the band. “Ya know this, don’tcha?”
“Yeah!”
“’Course, Bandlead!”
“Sure thing, Crony!”
“You stay safe too!”
The exclamations reassure you. And to the last one, you grin and say, “Thank you, Dorian!”
Dorian, your oldest bandmember, hoots their faith in you. It’s truly a blessing that you two met on the Limeblood village where you were raised and became inseparable since they lent you their musical talent.
“Alright, pallies, we’ve got three perigees before the next port ‘a call,” you say encouragingly. “Three perigees to dig into the depths ‘a the ship, to free any psionics that power it, three perigees to hide any slaves in our boomboxes…”
“Cronus.”
The interruption comes from your left side, where Porrim sits, one leg neatly folded over another.
“Yes, ma'am?”
“Focus on the mission,” she chides, but the edge under it is unmistakable. “We cannot afford to have you get all handsy on deck.”
You look pointedly at your bandmates, and they politely look away from your private conversation, beginnin’ convos of their own. When you’re sure you’re less likely to be interrupted, you turn back your gaze towards your best friend.
“I know, I know,” you tell Porrim, raising your hands to chest level with an apologetic face. “Ain’t gonna flirt with the Orphaner more than I did with the Empress, Por, I’m not that stupid.”
Porrim looks skeptical.
“I’m serious,” you convince her. “Any come-hither stare I toss to the crewmembers will be purely for the benefit ‘a the mission.”
“Sure, Vantass ,” Mituna sneers jovially, “As if you can ever resist a seadweller. I heard how you act around that Senatormentor. Bet the Orphaner will make you swoon even harder."
You squint your eyes at him. “Do ya even know what he looks like?”
“No, you?”
“Nope,” you say, popping the last syllable with innocently-wide eyes. “What does he look like, Por? Ya ever see the fella?”
“The Orphaner is quite an imposing figure,” Porrim says, “From my observation back under the Empress’ employ, he was at least fifteen feet tall, not including the horns, and built of pure muscle.”
Mituna whistles.
“Bet 500 credits Cronuts’ not gonna be able to hold his bulge after seein’ the fish-stick in person for the first time,” he quips. And when really look at him, he’s directing the challenge to your band . Dammit.
“That’s an unfair bet, Maryam,” Dorian points out. “Cronus couldn’t even do that with the Empress .”
Your head leans back in a lighthearted groan.
“Pallies, please, don’t be that way,” you mock-pout, “Gettin’ locked up with Her Passionate Condescension is purely for keepin’ my head attached to my body.”
You give your band the ‘mind your own business’ look again, and they continue their private convos once more. Mituna whistles again, lower, impressed at the variety of gazes in your arsenal. You shut him up with a kiss on the lips.
He blushes a deep jade.
You smirk at his cuteness and nuzzle his nose with yours.
He laughs lightly, pushing you back, then resumes his ribbing.
“Was Condi-ment a good eye candy to eat?” Mituna teases. “Mmm…”
He smacks his lips and licks it, tongue wagging wildly. “The sugarstone crunch of cool pinksweet, with pure ocean-salted nookwhiff-“
You lightly shove your friend. “Zip it , Tune, my dignity is on the line here.”
Porrim leans closer to you and shoots you an incredulous look. " You have dignity?"
Mituna laughs with her, and you act all offended.
“Captor's right, you have no dignity," Mituna jabs a finger on your chest. "So what's important is that my money's on the line, Crooner."
"Oh noooooo, Tune, not the money!"
“If you’re not gonna lick the fish-sticks, I’m gonna be the one to do it.”
“Noooo,” you groan dramatically, clawing your cheeks. “If ya got sweet-eyes for the fish-sticks, I gotta save your ass again , and I think my pusher can’t take that anymore.”
Mituna snickers. “Don’t you like doing that?”
You snort in return and squish his cheeks. “’A course, Tune, you’re my best friend.”
“Kinky.”
Porrim, almost unheard in the cacophony of your musicians and roadies’ conversations, chuckles.
There is an easy silence between the three of you. The lull of your band's conversations and practice runs get you to hum your own setlist. When the practice dies down, you look out the windows as your ride keeps scuttling on, from slums to seaside towns to the swankiest seadweller neighborhoods by the beach.
Suddenly, though, Mituna turns serious again. He straightens his posture to look intently at you and cupping your cheeks in return.
“Seriously, Cronus, flirting with the Orphaner or not, you’ve got to be careful. This is our first gig trying to free people under a seadweller’s gills.”
“Yeah, I will be careful,” you say, patting him on the back, “Don’t worry, buster.”
You shift to the left and put your arm around Porrim’s shoulders. “Besides, I’ve got Porrim - and my band - to watch my back!”
Porrim sighs. You know from her smile that it’s a fond one, though. You give her a peck on the cheek.
“Arriving at port in five minutes,” Sestex, your favorite roadie (next to Porrim and Mituna of course) and the driver of your tour ‘buggy, announces. “Get your bags packed.”
Your five bandmates start carrying their instruments and weapons, while the roadies shuffle back and forth to get the sound-system and luggage ready for unloading. Porrim and Mituna get ready, too, and so do you, slinging the bag carrying your microphone and setlist on your waist, and your rifle, the Standing Ovation, on your shoulder.
You recheck the horn caps you're wearing - they're fastened properly. Good. You don't know if they'd be okay with the salty air along the ocean, but it'll probably be fine.
Now Por will help carry things with her psi, Tune will carry our first aid stuff, then I greet the Orphaner…
Your plan runs through your mind in a grubsville of details, the smallest lines of your scripts flitting around like the notes out of a curvebrass in the climax of a passionate solo. You can’t really fault your pan for doing that. This is your first rebellious act in the heart of the Empire’s operations – it’s more dangerous than harboring fugitives as roadies, more time-sensitive than helping Porrim recover from psi dampener withdrawal.
But you’ve planned this as best as you can.
You can do this, Cronus.
Everyone in your band will help you, and you’ll free everyone from under the Orphaner’s armored boots.
The port’s less full of people than you expected. Por and Tuna, as well as the musicians and the roadies, stood one to a few paces behind you.
Could it be that the Orphaner’s ship deters people from doing anything here?
…But that doesn’t sound right.
The Aquaregia, according to your research, does a lot of loading and unloading for supplies, particularly with that company of the Inventor. But judging from the lack of Purplebloods with sense-defying technology walking around, maybe your band is the only supply they’re loading here.
Maaaaaaaybe.
You take a deep breath and slip further into your stage persona.
“Let’s get our asses on deck, pallies! We're goin' on a high seas adventure!"
You lead the way with a pep in your step. A brief glance confirms that Porrim and Mituna are in the middle and back respectively, blending in with the roadies. Good. They’re disguised enough, but you still hope the Orphaner or any of the crew don’t recognize ‘em from the wanted posters.
The ramp going up to the ship is quite the climb. But you know where to go as the Orphaner waits at the end of the bridge…
Oh gods.
Porrim was right to say he’s tall. Even from this distance, the seadweller looms like a pillar of death, and your bloodpusher bangs harder on your ribcage the closer you get.
Looking around, you see no welcoming committee. The colorful crew – probably slaves , your pan whispers – keeps doing their own thing, scattered around the deck, while the Orphaner just looks at your band with a sweeping, impassive gaze, his one visible eye burning red in highblood rage.
This is definitely a departure from your gig at the Imperial Palace – there, you and your quintet had a full-on parade, guards for protection, drinks pouring endlessly as you seduced the Empress with song and dance. You even got an opening band and a bunch of stripperific dancers! None of that stuff is available on a ship focused on killing lusii, you suppose.
You feel sick just thinking about it.
“Welcome to the Aquaregia,” the Orphaner booms. His voice makes you weak in the knees, and oh god, he is huge, almost as big as the Empress and yet broader, your horns only come up to his hips. His horns are so impressive too, shaped like lightning bolts against the dark sky. And all of him seemed to be gleaming with jewelry. “You must be Cronus Vantas.”
“Aye aye, sir, the one and only,” you grin, saluting with a cheeky wink (as best as you can when your conversation partner is twice your height). You don't know his hatchname, but his ancestral name is beyond famous, so you'll improvise in reciprocating. “And ya must be Mr. Ampora. Has anyone told ya you’re a real stunner?”
He bares his teeth at you, showing off rows of small but menacing blades.
You freeze. Torn between wanting to run your tongue through those beautiful things in his mouth and bolting away and never coming back-
The claws around your neck confirms that you can’t do the second any time soon. He’s lifting you off the ground and your legs reflexively try to get to the ground and you’re clawing his hands off please please let go- you can’t breathe-
“Know your place, Troubadour,” the Orphaner hisses, you think he’s glaring at you but your vision’s getting blurry- “Whatever your blood may look like under those colorless threads, you are still beneath me. You will refer to me as ‘the Orphaner’, or barring that, ‘Captain’. Failure to comply with proper Imperial conduct will result in you – and your merry band of gutterbloods – released into the mercy of the thirteen seas.”
The ground rushes up to meet you, Standing Ovation slamming against your back. You heave, massaging your throatflaps and neck, gasping for air, while he folds his hands on his chest, still looking down at you like you’re some kinda stain on the floor.
“I trust you are familiar with the circumstances of your arrival,” the Orphaner continues. “Tell me, Troubadour. What do you think you are here for?”
“T-to entertain ya and your crew, Cap’n?” you choke out. “With m’band?”
“No,” he snaps. “I have no patience for the frivolous schlock you call ‘music’. The slave quarters have been prepared for your accommodation, so for the next perigees, I advise all of you to gather your sea legs and make yourselves useful.”
Well that’s not fair! You and your band came here as free trolls! You were promised the highest payment for entertaining the royal matesprit! “Buh- but the- the Empress said-“
The Orphaner bends down to your eye level – kneeling, crouching even. His armor looks heavy, and yet his movements are quieter than the wind – how does that work, how can he be so graceful? His blazing eye is directed solely at you and you can’t move, your pusher’s going wild and your breathing’s growing faster where’s your stage persona when you need it-
“Her Passionate Condescension,” he says, and the scent of the sea and his armor and just him filling your senses is making you dizzy. “Is not the foremost authority on this vessel. Do you know who it is, Bandlead?"
He spits your title like it's a particularly horrible batch of rotten grubsauce. But he asked you a question, so, you answer.
"You, Orphaner."
“Good,” the Orphaner grins, shark-like fangs gleaming at you in their full glory. “Now put away your instruments and return here as soon as possible. My boatswain will give you your assignments.”