#q.hughes|43

[devils-pirate-crew]

"Jack!"

The owner of the tavern perks up immediately, waving Jack over from where he stands behind the bar counter polishing glasses. He seems not to be expecting the pirate to vault over the counter, capturing him in a giant bear hug; the tavern owner stumbles back, grinning, as he wraps his arms around Jack.

"Quinn!" Jack repeats, laughing. "How're mom and dad holding up?"

Quinn sucks in a breath, letting Jack go and waving to Dawson and Luke, who've stepped inside The Electric Eel. The sign above the door sways a moment longer before stalling. He smiles widely at Luke, who nods awkwardly back, clearly also excited to be here by how he shuffles over to join his brothers, albeit on the other side of the counter. Dawson tags along, stooping to collect the letters that Jack had dropped.

"Mom's doing well, as always," Quinn reaches past Jack, setting down the stein, and pointedly avoiding the other half of the question. "Business is going strong. Thunderbolt came by a few months ago and she scammed Stammer so hard," he chuckles. "Made ten times the profit on some jewelry and fabric he thought was useless."

"Speaking of," Luke segues. "Anyone here now?"

Quinn nods. "Two, matter fact. Sensibility docked at the Cove last week." He rolls his eyes. "You wanna know what's up with them?"

"Fuck yeah," Jack cheers, finally realizing he should get on the right side of the counter and jumping back over to take a seat. As it's still early, not many people are there - only a few career drunks loitering in the corners. Luke quietly perches on a stool next to him; Dawson scoops up the last of the letters and tucks them into his coat, sitting on Luke's other side.

"Okay," Quinn begins, already collecting a few glasses and putting them under a keg whose tap he opens. "So Chabot's been the captain of Sensibility since Karlsson fucked off and retired to Pacifico, right?" At the nods of his audience, he continues, "Turns out Chabby hasn't been doing too hot. Past few years, Sensibility hasn't been able to land a big target. So they voted him out!"

"No," Dawson finds himself gasping along with the Hughes brothers. None of them seem to pay him much mind, more concerned with the gossip at hand.

"Yes!" Quinn smiles with schadenfreude. "They said he was too much of a coward and voted him out! And you know who they elected their new captain?"

"No idea," Jack admits. He closes his eyes, deep in thought. "Hamonic? Giroux? Didn't Giroux captain Viceroy back in the day?"

"Maybe him," Dawson agrees.

"Neither." Quinn grins wider, placing the full beer steins in front of the pirates. "Brady fucking Tkachuk."

"No fucking way," Jack blinks, taking a swig.

"Yes fucking way," Quinn nods.

Jack whistles, banging a fist on the table. "God damn!"

"You said there were two ships?" Luke questions, ignoring his brother's whooping and hollering at the news.

"...Santé's here too," Quinn admits.

At this, Jack seems to light up even more. "Cole's here?"

"Oh my God, I'm going to get a headache - " Quinn groans.

"Cole's here! Holy shit, Quinner! If Trevor were here too, the whole gang would be together!" Jack absolutely beams at this thought. "God, I hope Old Mallard shows her face..."

"I think I'd rather die," Luke mumbles, taking a long sip of his beer and resting his head on the counter, exchanging a horrified look with Quinn.

Dawson leans back, looking at the beverage in front of him. He closes his eyes, trying to focus on the Voices that speak in his ears and the rising headache taking over his brain. As Jack chatters on about Cole and Trevor, and The Electric Eel bustles around them, Dawson figures that now would be a good time to drain the pressure - if any of the Voices decide that now is a good time to speak, that is.

[puckpocketed]

who is #43?

Hello !! First off thank u for visiting. If you clicked read more by accident rip sorry it’s a lot of text. ENJOY!!! <3

1. This was the photo reference I used. I really did mean it when i said he photographs well!! I really like how scrungly he looks at times lol. v paintable

2. here’s a timelapse for your viewing pleasure in video + gif form <3

3. Process breakdown below. I am not formally trained, so don’t take any of this as professional advice!! The way i paint has been compared to channeling some evil contract with a demon also. So um . Im saying that i dont remotely think that this is efficient or correct, its just whats comfortable for me <3

3a) the dreaded lining phase. I have 2 modes of operation when it comes to painting - either i go full-dick with fancy inking/sketching + cel shading (rare, unrefined, haven’t figured out a nice workflow yet) OR i do a very very basic chicken scratch set of lines like so:

It’s less about being realistic here and more about laying down some guide lines for the chaos ahead. If i thought i could get away with it, I would start every rendered painting i do with laying down colours — but unfortchh ive tried that before and it usually ends in really weird proportions. Even with the lines i still need to make adjustments. This is something no people except me would notice but look at the above sketch; the eyes are too big and slightly too far apart, the forehead is too small and thus the hair is also not quite big enough… I have a bad habit of drawing eyes too big on faces, they’re my favourite facial feature to draw.. i barely resisted giving him big cow eyelashes (I love big cow eyelashes… all of my OC’s and most of my more stylised fan art of characters get big cow eyelashes… god…. Big cow eyelashes SAVE ME……….)

Anyway. Structure of the face + hand somewhat established. <3

3b) Underpainting!! Okay stay with me here . Ever since i figured out i dont have to paint in 03925893853 different layers, I’ve joyfully painted on 1 layer as much as possible. I dont have the brain power all the time to be managing layers so I simply dont work with that many layers. For this painting, the skin in its entirety was painted on one layer, the hair on another layer, and the effects on the last layer. There was a placeholder background off-white/grey colour for a while there, and I duplicated the line layer — one for figuring out where to lay colours, and one hidden for later so i could check back to see how accurate to the sketch/proportions were to the actual painting. 6 layers, 2 of which i painted the bulk of the piece on, 1 more at the end.

3c) here’s where I started carving out features. I think about objects in terms of volumes and light rather than lines. i love painting and sculpting because of this!! Here you see where I’ve begun to define his features — his eyelids, his bags, his nostrils. Just refining what was there before. The suggestion of facial hair before i gave it up and left it for later (his face is so naked the WHOLE time)

3d) nose bridge highlight, suggesting his eyebrows, a cheek highlight. A touch more coral red and muted yellow pull away from the grey/blue underpainting. Strategically leaving some of it peeking through.

3e) i truly start messing with the fidelity of his features here. Red lipstick <3 and some violet/blue for shadows on the right side of his face.

3f) the part where it starts looking like q.hughes to me (though, my friend said i got his vibe pretty early on which is such a compliment.. waaaaa…..) I love this part of every painting i do. I know it’s definitely not the Correct order since other parts of the entire painting are simply Not Rendered or Done, but whos gonna stop me?? :3

I love love loveeee painting faces. Adding the little shinies to his eyes + lips + upper lip + nose … you don’t know how much of a difference it makes until you do it. Also i snatched his eyebrows

3g) i really pushed the red/coral/ochre/orange here. Note the yellow highlights on his cheekbones, the forehead, and the thin thin line of pink right between where his bottom lip ends and his chin shadow starts <- very important . To ME!!!!!!! Also highlighting his waterline and adding his lashes was so so fun <3

3h) FACIAL HAIR!!! And I started rendering his hand. Some micro adjustments made to his face for proportion check.

3i) i start painting his hair in earnest and realise his forehead is too small so i make the adjustment. I really love how it falls into his eyes in this photo. <3

3j) i make some final adjustments to his eyes — a bit smaller, closer together. And i refine the outline of his jaw, push the stylisation of it just a little.

3k) Finishing details; his flyaway hairs, his moles, a bit of texture on his face, shadows cast by his hair, his little forehead cut <3

3l) i adjusted his hand here, added more texture to his skin, refined his hair a tiny bit more, and made the decision not to fuck around painting his jersey because i wanted the focus to be his face <3

3m) Canucks blue and green. Captain at 23. His form bleeds into the background. He is the franchise.

theee most fun ive had painting anything. and i finally feel... warmed up? if that makes sense. art for me is like. if i dont do it in a while it feels like nothing goes right when i come back to it. i hate that feeling, and the most difficult hurdle to clear is letting myself feel that until i get back into my Zone. after all this time i feel like im BACK !!!!!!!

i loved painting this fella. hes SO Shaped. <3

Apologies i simply do Not have the energy to write the alt text for all of these so i hope the little blurbs are okay aslkjasdklj. i gotta post and go to bed . if u made it this far, thank you for reading!!

[devils-pirate-crew]

Dawson closes his eyes, burrowing his nose into Dougie's side. The pilot smiles down at him, then looks to the right at the rest of the group at the tavern. His eyes lock with Arber's for a long moment before he glances back down into his beer.

Hey, Dawson now tries to open the connection wide. Arber?

Hm? The gunner tilts his head back, stretching his neck.

Why's it gotta be so loud?

It's just how it is, Arber sighs through the connection. You've got a lot of spirits. It gets loud.

Dawson nods into Dougie's side. Both he and Arber sit there for a long moment before the connection flickers off, only the Voices audible floating between the two. The rest of the world comes back into focus.

Brady raises his glass, clambering up on top of his stool, wobbling a little bit as he stands. "To the fucking new era of Sensibility!" he roars. "A round for all of you, on me!"

"Fuck yeah," Trevor grins, taking another long swig of the whiskey bottle - it's about half empty by now, which means he's probably incredibly drunk, given how much of a lightweight he looks. That plus he tries not to cough every time he takes a drink.

"Quinn!" Jack yells. "Get us some glasses of port, Brady's buying!"

Quinn grins, strolling casually back around the counter. "You want the nice stuff, Tkachuk?" he asks, mellifluous, reaching up to get the nice glasses from their spot on a high shelf. "Also, get off my stool."

"You're not the boss of me," Brady complains back, nevertheless flopping down. His coat hangs behind him, exposing his entire chest to the group. Jesus, this dude.

"That's what I thought." Quinn uncorks a bottle he procured from under the counter, pouring a bit of the port bottle into each of the glasses. The bartender then slides each glass to one of the nine pirates sitting at the counter before taking the tenth for himself. "To Brady's shitty financial decisions," he toasts, smirking.

"To shitty financial decisions," the rest of the pirates echo, taking sips of the port, which gets Brady blushing with embarrassment and muttering under his breath. Dawson merely looks at the glass in front of him, not moving to touch it.

He's just... not in the mood for it. At all. Not when it's loud like this.

God, he hopes they get out of here soon. Why were they here again in the first place? Right, they were waiting for Nico. And Nico's, unfortunately, almost assured to end up in the same place that Jack is. So they're stuck here until their captain shows up, which then means Arber talks to him, which is more waiting.

Dawson hates waiting.

Especially when the Voices are loud and the world is loud around them.

He reaches out tentatively for the glass, but drops his hand just moments before touching it. It's rude, isn't it? To deny a drink with friends? And yet he doesn't think he should accept it. What did he do for it?

Dawson shakes his head almost imperceptibly, letting his arm fall to his side. No. Better not to.

[devils-pirate-crew]

"Quinn!" someone yells into the tavern, kicking the door open. Dawson spins around on his stool at the same time as Quinn absolutely groans, dropping his head until his chin smacks his chest. "I knew it!"

Jack strides into the Electric Eel, two familiar suspects nipping at his heels. One is quite short, even by 18th-century standards, but power coils through his muscles. Even so, he offers a quirky, freckled grin. Arber catches it and waves back. The other person is slightly taller than Jack and looks even more like a drowned rat, if that were possible. Tattoos wind around one of his arms, clearly patchwork and done by some sailor with little experience but enough gunpowder and imagination to make it work.

"I told you!" Jack continues his chatterboxing, the short pirate taking the seat to Arber's right and the taller one leaving an empty spot between the short one and his own seat, presumably for Jack. "I told you that if Cole and I were both here, Old Mallard would show!"

Quinn bustles back to behind the counter, getting two beers for Jack, who only now takes his seat between his two friends, and the short pirate, Cole. He then fishes under the cabinet to pull out some whiskey, rolling his eyes as he slides the entire bottle to the man on the far end. "Trevor, if you cause a fucking scene again, I will personally kill you," he warns.

"You got it, boss," Trevor mock-salutes, already opening the bottle and taking a long gulp before vaguely pretending it's not burning his throat on the way down. Cole gives him a puzzled look that reads okay, tough guy.

"And I'll make it even better for you," the tavern owner bargains. "You can pick the hand I beat the fuck out of you with." He smirks, his gaze still dead inside as he stares Trevor down - he flexes his fingers on the neck of the bottle, chuckling awkwardly.

"Can we watch?" Cole now pipes up, sunny as ever.

Jack bursts into laughter. "And be next?" He wheezes for air. "Well, you'd be next. I'd get Mom to protect me." The master-at-arms sticks his tongue out at Quinn, who merely rolls his eyes at his little brother in response, deciding to get incredibly busy cleaning on the other side of the tavern to not deal with this shit.

"So, Zeegs," Cole takes a sip of his beer, "What's Old Mallard up to?"

Trevor rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "Not much luck," he admits. "We thought we had a great target. Turns out it was Crown Jewel."

"Yiiikes," Jack breathes out.

"Yeah." He gulps down another long shot of whiskey, still trying to act macho, a façade that literally everyone at the bar is able to see through. "Thank fuck Jamie was at the wheel."

"Jamie's your new friend, huh?" Cole grins. It would look innocent enough to anyone who didn't know Cole Caufield, but to those acquainted with the tiny pirate, the expression would immediately be clocked as one of Starting Shit.

"Shut the fuck up," Trevor replies, as easily as breathing. He raises his bottle as if going to hit Cole with it; the latter pirate pretends to duck, giggling wildly as he does.

...It's getting loud in here, Dawson registers dimly.

[devils-pirate-crew]

how come quinn isnt on a ship right now?

Dawson looks over to Quinn, then slips just beyond Dougie and Claude's conversation, leaning on the counter and tapping it to get the bartender's attention. Quinn disentangles himself from where Brady had had him in a headlock and walks over, eyebrows raised. "Hm?"

"I was always wondering," Dawson leads in, "Why you never come with. Doesn't it get lonely here?"

Quinn blinks once, then twice, considering it. "Are you trying to recruit me?" he asks, softly.

The pilot's mate shakes his head. "Just seems weird, both your brothers pirates, your father a pirate, and you're not."

He laughs at that, leaning on the counter - his expression goes darker after a moment. "My mother travels a lot to sell wares," he explains, "So somebody's got to keep the tavern in business." A half-hearted shrug. "Jack and Luke, they wanted a life at sea more than I did, so I run The Electric Eel for them. In case anything happens, they'll always have a home to come back to, someone to take care of them." Quinn scratches at his hairline, glancing up to the ceiling, then offers a polite, yet strained, smile. "It's alright, I guess. I get to meet a lot of different pirates. I don't regret the decision that I made."

[devils-pirate-crew]

Before any of them can continue their conversation, they're interrupted by the three men sitting to their left. The one furthest left, a somewhat familiar ginger man with a frankly impressive beard, sighs at the one in the middle, who's just slumped down on the counter, clearly a little wasted already - and it's barely lunch time. Looks like these guys are starting early.

The third one, sitting next to Arber, laughs raucously. He looks simultaneously five years older and five years younger than he probably is, with a tuft of curly hair right on top of his head. Overall, he's just a strange specimen of a man. He apparently lost his dress shirt before coming here, his fancy black coat billowing open to reveal the plains of his tanned chest and stomach.

Not that Dawson's looking, mind you. But it's difficult not to when it's being put on display like that.

Curly Boy reaches over to ruffle Middle Boy's hair while Ginger Man returns to taking a long sip of his beer, pointedly pretending to ignore what's going on between the other two, even if his eyes keep flickering back over again. "Jimmy," Curly Boy whines out the second syllable. "There's no way you can be this far gone already!"

Ginger Man takes another deep breath. This seems oddly like a daycare he's been entrusted to run. "I thought Germans were good at holding their alcohol," he comments idly, tempering his demeanor carefully to convey a sense of nonchalance.

Middle Boy - Jimmy props his chin up on his forearms, a furious blush of intoxication painting his cheeks. "I am," he protests. "Brady's just being mean."

"Brady's always mean," Quinn now chimes in, strolling over to give Curly Boy - Brady a playful glare. "You get used to it."

Dougie leans back on his stool, whistling at Ginger Man. "Giroux!" he calls. "How's it?" Oh. That makes sense.

Claude raises his eyebrows, similarly leaning back to see Dougie clearly. "Hamilton!" He breaks out into a smile - whether it's at the recognition of a fellow reddish-haired pirate or the recognition of a fellow mostly-sane pirate is still up in the air. "It's going."

"New ship," Dougie replies. "She treating you well?"

Giroux nods. "They elected me quartermaster," he shoots back, raising his voice to be heard over the indiscriminate bickering of Jimmy, Brady, and Quinn. "Reeled in two big catches since Brady became captain, too. How's Jersey Devil?"

Arber smiles into his drink at all the chattering going on around them. Hamilton, eh? he shoots to Dawson. Interesting.

Dawson looks down to the bandages on his left hand, fiddling with them. He knows what Arber's getting at here. He took the name when he learned to read, is what he told me. His dial has that name too. I think that's where he got it from.

Dougie stands, long legs stretching out, and paces to behind Claude, hooking his chin on Claude's shoulder - it's a move he's done many times to assorted crewmembers, especially Dawson, so the pilot's mate is used to it by now. Giroux doesn't flinch either, merely grinning back. "Same old," the pilot shrugs. "Have you met my kid yet?"

Claude takes a moment to think, then shakes his head no. "Still can't believe Nico trusted you with one."

"Dawson!" At Dougie's voice, the pilot's mate scurries off his stool, crossing to offer a hand to Giroux as a greeting. The elder pirate takes it, shaking. "This is Dawson Mercer," Dougie introduces. "He's been with us for a couple years now. A little shy, though," he chuckles. Dawson can feel Claude's gaze on the bandages, the silent question and concern in the air, but he can't find a good way to dismiss it. Instead, his eyes go back to Quinn, who's left the other two alone and is now working on wiping down the counter. The better a tip you give me, the more I can remember.

[devils-pirate-crew]

ask quinn about the post office maybe?

Dawson pauses - he notices Arber, to his left, stiffen a little as well. Right. He can hear them too.

Somehow, that's always new.

"Uh," Dawson runs a finger around the rim of his pint glass self-consciously. "Did anything, uh, happen with Petey recently?"

"With Petey?" Quinn echoes. "I..." He pauses, thinking. "I don't think so?"

"The, uh, post office," the pilot's mate clarifies. "Anything happened there? Place is kind of... scary?" he tries.

Arber looks to the side at Dawson, then shakes his head good-naturedly. "Like..." He waves a hand around, trying to figure out the proper way to phrase did anyone explode there that wouldn't have Quinn disturbed. "I think he's asking more for like, a history of the place?"

"Ah," the bartender nods. "Well, when I was a kid, the shop was run by Lu. Uh, it's not just a post office - most of the Cove thinks of it more as a dry goods store. Lu always used to give us candy when we visited..." He sighs. "But a while back, Lu and his wife moved away. They had young kids, you know. Didn't want to raise them in an unsafe environment if they could help it. I think they're up in... New York? Or maybe it was Newport. Anyways, after Lu left, this kid came by and took over the store. Nobody really liked him much, honestly. He wasn't nice to customers - hell, I think he punched someone in the face once for asking for a discount for buying in bulk." Quinn methodically cleans a glass as he speaks, over and over again, some sort of soothing method. "The store shut down for a little bit, and then Petey came and took over. We never saw the kid again. Honestly, good riddance," he shrugs.

"Huh," Dougie lets out a breath.

"Funny that you say you didn't like it there, though," Quinn continues. "Demmer tries to avoid Petey's shop, too. Says there's a bad energy or something?"

Dawson finds Arber's eyes. An unspoken understanding passes between them.

[devils-pirate-crew]

Dougie leads the way off Jersey Devil, Arber two paces behind him, Dawson one pace behind that. A few of the crewmates wave as they pass by, but nobody really seems to be interested in talking. No wonder, given half the crew is busy dealing with hangovers and the other half is busy trying to keep the ship upright.

As soon as they get off, Dougie stops, turning around. "Want to get a drink before we go?" He smiles, as if to sell the idea.

Dawson raises an eyebrow, unsure why Dougie's asking, but Arber takes over instead. "Might as well," he agrees. "I'll pay?"

The pilot doesn't dispute it, instead hooking his arm around Dawson's shoulder, pulling the younger pirate into his side. Arber chuckles at them before the trio head up the main road of the Cove.

So, he's..? Arber's question echoes in Dawson's head.

Dougie. Our pilot. Uh, I'm the pilot's mate, so I work with him a lot. Dawson flicks a few stray strands of hair from his eyes.

Arber's side of the line goes quiet for a moment. Aha, he offers. Makes sense.

Dawson doesn't bother asking what exactly makes sense to Arber now, instead keeping his gaze trained at his feet as he walks. He can feel the stares of passers-by - although pirates are a dime a dozen at the Cove, pirates half wrapped up in bandages are a little less common, and he's pretty sure he can hear someone whispering about "the weird kid who was crying next to the post office yesterday".

And then the reply, "Wonder if his captain beat the shit out of him for that stunt".

Dawson bites the inside of his cheek, pressing his shoulder further into Dougie's side.

The familiar face of The Electric Eel comes into view soon enough. Arber doesn't even knock before walking in, waving at the bar. "Quinn!" he calls.

Said bartender looks up from where he's polishing a glass. "Xhekaj," he nods, then looks at Dougie and Dawson filing in behind. "You've got company?" He raises his eyebrows, seemingly impressed. "I thought Slaf was the only one who would put up with you for an extended period of time."

Arber rolls his eyes, taking a seat next to three other men. "One round for me and my friends, on me. I'm not that much of an asshole."

"That's why," Quinn smirks, ducking to narrowly avoid the napkin Arber picks up and tosses at the bartender's head. He fills up three pint glasses with beer, sliding them onto the counter. "Will it be anything else for you right now?" His eyes dart to Dawson, mirth in his normally-dead gaze. "If you need help, Mercy, blink twice."

"Oh, piss off," the gunner sighs, exaggerated. "I should go talk to your manager. Complain about how badly you're treating me. A valuable customer!"

"What manager, me?" Quinn's laugh is light. "Good luck with that one, buddy." He leans on the counter, gaze now bouncing to Dougie. "So," he asks, voice dropped down to a whisper, "Why'd you guys really come here? At this hour of the day, too? I'm not stupid; I know it's not just drinks." Quinn tilts his head slightly, closing his eyes, somehow seeming almost threatening in the slats of light streaming in from the windows. "The better a tip you give me, the more I can remember. What do you want to know?"

[devils-pirate-crew]

" - And then Nico said it's not his job to fight, which, bullshit - "

"Jack!" The doors of The Electric Eel open - Curtis Lazar waves to Quinn, his other arm slung around the shoulders of a man dressed way too fancily to be a normal sailor (with horrific facial hair to match). "Captain's asking if you sent the mail before deciding to get wasted."

"It's been taken care of," Jack lies effortlessly, not even turning to look at Curtis. Dawson rolls his eyes, taking a few of the letters from his coat and lifting them into the air to call Jack's bluff. The Master-in-Arms reaches across Luke to smack Dawson lovingly in the back of the head.

"Should probably get on that," Curtis sighs, nodding to Dawson, who gets up and scuttles out of the way. "Post office is across the street, Mercy. Make sure to ask for Petey."

"Roger," Dawson salutes mockingly, raising his eyebrows as Curtis takes the seat where he'd just been, the fancily-dressed man perching on the stool to the gunner's right.

"The usual, Chabby?" Quinn asks, already pouring half a bottle of rum into a stein for his newest guest. Meanwhile, Curtis lifts Dawson's glass, silently cheersing dry land before downing the rest of it.

He should probably get out of here.

Dawson steps behind Jack, clearing his throat. "Give me the rest of the letters and I'll go send them." Jack reaches into his coat and hands Dawson the envelopes still stuffed there while maintaining chattering to the fancy man (who Dawson could only assume was Thomas Chabot) while said fancy man gets to work destroying his liver. Truly, a valid reaction to Jack Hughes.

So Dawson heads out and across the street to a small shop that he assumes is the one Curtis is on about. He pushes the door open and is immediately assaulted by a throbbing headache. It's like the Voices are amplified thousandfold until they're screaming in Dawson's ears, shrapnel being shoved and twisted into his skull. The world starts tilting on its axis, a wave of nausea hitting the young pirate, as if he were seasick on land. It's only been like this once before, ever, and it's painful.

Dawson slams the door shut, backing away from the store, eyes wide with tears pricking in them. It takes it all a minute - for the pain to relax back to its normal levels, for the Voices to calm somewhat, for the world to stop spinning. "Holy fucking shit," he mumbles.

He's being delusional, is what he's being. He's just making up stories, like Mom always said. Just making up stories. Just making up stories.

Dawson takes a moment to catch his breath, then moves closer to the door again. Every muscle in his body screams not to, every bone all but locks in place. He places his hand on the door handle, then twists it cautiously. The moment he opens the door, the nausea, the vertigo, the screaming, the pain comes back. He quickly slams it shut again.

Just making up stories. Just making up stories. Just making up stories.

One more time. Dawson yanks open the door and braces himself as the hurt courses through his body. "Looking for Petey," he groans into the store, leaning on the door to hold his weight.

The two men inside look at each other for a moment before the taller one - Petey, Dawson assumes - beckons him over, the shorter busying himself with some paperwork. Each step Dawson takes burns him as he staggers over to the counter, slamming the envelopes down. Petey takes them, checking the amount. "Good business at sea?" Dawson nods, not trusting himself to open his mouth. "Three pence for each of these... five shillings total." The pilot's mate scrambles to open the tiny cloth bag holding his share, fumbling with the coins as he hands five shillings over and all but flees the shop, blocking out the "Have a nice day?" a confused Petey gives him.

Dawson doesn't stop moving until he's at least three stores down, ducking into a gap between two buildings. He all but collapses to the ground, holding his head in his hands, and tries desperately not to break out sobbing.

Just making up stories. Just making up stories. Just making up stories.