Pirate Game Fan Fiction

At this point, Mycroft Bones had retreated to a desk in the Admiralty Foyer, another dog leaning on the table. Warwick had brushed his hair before coming in – something seldom done but usually appreciated – and appeared through a cold draft generated when he opened the door. His armor was little since he had left the constant fighting the Navy required. Under his arm, Warwick held a crisp tricorne hat. Bones recognized the insistent pattering of his agent's boots. He turned his head back, smiling.

"Sir," Warwick greeted Bones, "And Smiley." The stovepipe-topped dog to the side nodded. Warwick made his way to the other side of the desk, leaning on the wall. His head was awkwardly tipped away from a lamp, but it was slightly more comfortable than the wind-evading hunch that he had acquired.

"How's the weather out there, Pirate?" Bones chuckled. Warwick looked away. To this day, Bones was the only dog who he had permitted to call him such a petty term. His days as a thief were a year and a half over. "Haven't seen the light of day since I started this case." Warwick furrowed his brow. He had known Bones to be a dog for proper exercise, taking morning walks routinely. Warwick had sometimes attended as he picked up food for his own day.

"Think harder," Bones scolded, making Warwick jump, "The light of the moon has more recently been my lantern. This case requires much shadow." Warwick chewed on his cheek, thinking to local rumors. "Talked to Natalie Barnsworth, lately?" More ceiling-borne glares."Natalie Barnsworth, the poor old dog. Was taking a delivery from the meats shop when she came across..." Bones took a step back, re-analyzing the situation. He didn't do this often, and it worried Warwick. "Across something that I think I can fix. In fact, I think I've got it! Just lock a door and wait for him to notice." An uneasy smile crossed Bones' face, and Warwick could detect just a whiff of insecurity in it. If I've learned one thing, he concluded, Then I've just applied it.

"I think my services requiring you are actually through, tonight," Bones said, turning Warwick around roughly. He would often refrain from physical means of getting his point through, but he and the captain had been through enough for him to have to resort to such an action. Warwick found himself on the cold outside. In such a time, it was just as good as getting fired. Warwick scowled; he barely got paid, in the first place.

He started firstly towards the local tavern. He walked in, expecting a welcome from past folks with lost items who often tavern-crawled locally. The door closed with a satisfying click, and the tavern crowd turned, their snouts following Warwick as he found an end stool at the bar. He set a few coins on the table, getting a half-empty glass of Yum in return. Shortages were normal in Marleybone, as Lymie Stone the fruit thief hadn't yet been caught, but Warwick found the amount gone simply appalling. Scowling, he set the mug aside and turned to a dog sitting next to him – a schnauzer-type, sitting hunched beneath a hat and thick coat. "Any word from Mann, lately?" Warwick asked, folding his arms on the table, "Haven't seen him -"

"No." The dog stood, leaving his Yum. Turning his head to follow the dog with his gaze, Warwick found himself under the judging eyes of the rest of the tavern folk, most of which whispered to themselves in hushed tones. Grunting to himself, he sat back on his stool, drinking the rest of the Yum and leaving with his hands shoved in his pockets. Ignoring the draft sending tangled hair into his face, Warwick kept his gaze lower than usual, following the pattern of the chipped cobblestone instead of the clumped crowds shifting further away from him. Quickening his pace, Warwick found himself standing on the edge of the island, toes in the air. The building port had its normal nip of cold and he closed his eyes for a precious second to analyze the grinding gears. Anxious commands filled his memory, quickly followed by childish pursuits to hold ropes and manage to stay on board on the stormier nights in years past. Beneath his feet, he could practically feel the swaying deck and rumble of cannonfire below him.

"Move it!" an engineer grunted, pushing barrels of explosives past him, "What d'ya think ye're doing here!? Get back inside!"

Warwick spent the night on tip-toe. Not necessarily as to keep down the coattails of any roaming Marleybonian, he crept to avoid the snapping jaws of tough-hided Crocogators roaming the city sewers. He glanced towards the bustling Undertown, contemplating a small meal to soothe his stomach – sick from sudden alienation – and turned down the idea, finding hunger tastier than a blade. The memories of sparks on the cement walls and anxious splashing on the backs of his legs as he ran from overwhelming conflict were, in such lack of communication, welcomed. With a grieving sigh, Warwick let his mind dawdle on the case Bones had so quickly revoked. Over the past two months, Warwick had slowly been collecting the names of every citizen in the catalogue of his mind, able to greet nearly every commoner to the Admiral Benbow by name. Even when they called him things like 'Bilge rat' and 'Good-fer-nuttin'-scumbag-sailor kid', he was able to reciprocate in the self-proven highest form of address. Waking from his state of thought, the sound of gunfire prompted him to rise. Two folk likely just older than he had rushed into the sewer, reeking of the sky and its ever-rotting inhabitants. Even with its familiarity, Warwick prompted himself to cringe and make way for safer ground. "Hey, mate!" one of them called, using his weapon – one of two – to beckon Warwick back, "Could use a hand in batt'rin' them Crocs! Got a handful innit for ye!"

"I -" Warwick stammered, pausing to glare at the worn condition of the dog's sparkshooter, "I'm afraid I'm not fit to..." he stopped as his sentence went ignored. A large Crocogator head-butted the gunslinger, sending him back several feet. Warwick could already hear he of a name not so forgotten yet barking modification, the temptation of sunlight invading Warwick's reminiscing subconscious. His face changed and he made way towards the fight, stepping into the little light from a nearby oil lamp. Immediately, the two dogs stiffened. They turned, outrunning the Crocs. Warwick didn't think to follow them; Just like the others, they too considered him toxic in some sort still up for the finding. In the mood for something vigorous, Warwick concentrated on a focused sprint towards an abandoned boiler room, finding shelter and warmth near an air vent, near which he leaned on something semi-upright and attempted sleep.

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