----

Unfortunately, Mike's memory isn't kind to their meeting.

He can, however, remember other details of the day. Unimportant, meaningless, faint events repeating themselves in the back of his mind, like how Fritz and another crew member were having a fit over who's turn it was to be the unlucky sod tasked with taking out the piss bucket, or the whispers of who had the nerve to sneak another bottle of rum behind the captain's back, thinking that no one would notice the sudden shortage count of one in their ever-so-dwindling supply.

He smirks at the memory. Getting away with the crime was simple child's play, blaming one of the lower ranked members wasn't much of a fling, either. No one suspected the First-Mate, hardly.

The crew is, for lack of a better phrase: Sturdy. There were one or two drunkards, a shot-slinger or two, the occasional stow-away turned sail slave turned hearty criminal, then there's just Fritz: The strange witch-doctor they picked up a few plunders back, hoping to use him for potions and other mythical magical means. Mike called bullshit, obviously. But the crew seemed more than entertained.

What was baffling even more is as to why the fool ended up wanting to stay, using no other excuse other than claiming he loved adventure, said he'd make himself worthwhile providing the ship and it's harbors with all sorts of totems with magical properties and to play music at night, when everyone wanted to wind down and wouldn't mind listening to a melody. It was surprising how well he could make use of some crude drums swiped from a village or a wooden flute one of crew happen to have stashed on board.

Unlike what their reputation would tell you, the Captain was more than welcoming to a newcomer. The more the merrier, he would say.

Mike, on the other hand, believes the Witch doctor's stay has more to do with his fixation with the blond, soft spoken prisoner they've locked up in the kitchen to make-do as a chef. No one bothers the lad much, goes by the name Scottie or something of the sort. No pirate cares to harm em, at most just poking at the poor sod for another plate of god-knows what ever's in that meat. Just that Fritz seems to want to strike up a chat with the sop, and for once it's not someone complaining about not getting seconds.

Mike keeps this thought to himself; a tale for another time. It wasn't his place to make assumptions, anyway. No matter how highly he was ranked.

The position of First-Mate did not come without a price, after all, and sometimes what was owed could leave a poor soul in grave debt that could never be repaid.

There were other methods, of course. In a time like this, it's a shark-eat-fish world, and the trouts have to stick to the killers to make it out alive. Gaining the trust and respect of other's took hard work, dedication and sometimes even years of your time.

Sliding a dagger against the skin of their throats took only seconds. Captain Foxy has made it very clear that it is better to be feared as something monstrous and unstoppable then it is to be seen as a beloved whelp who could easily be overthrown.

Being the fool that he is, Mike doesn't comprehend the full severity of this motto until the day of trade, when the entire front deck is flooded with familiar pirates and new faces alike, showing off trinkets and treasures galore.

It's at this point does his memory decide to favor him.

"A thousand year old, ye say?" The aged man in front of him mused, stroking his scraggly, beaded beard with humor. "Stop pulled me peg, Schmidt. Relics like that one don't last more than a decade. Watcha got there is some half-assed trinket you stole from a tradesmen. Ya can't fool me."

Mike gave a dull shrug, twirling the blood red compass, it's golden chain wrapping around his fingers as it swung. "It's genuine, and it's not up for trade anyway. I don't need your criticism."

He watched as the man attempted to hold a serious facade before giving a low chuckle, eyeing the compass with interest. "Is that so?" He mused, offering a sly smile. "I should've known someone like you would be more than happy to show off. Go ahead and convince me then; what be the tale behind that compass?"

Mike grinned. Reverse psychology worked wonders. "It was my father's."

The man's smile faltered ever so slightly. "That old scrump?" He questioned, now looking more confused than before. "Thought that fool kicked the bucket years ago. Took a blade to the neck, I hear."

"Exactly."

For a split second, he could of sworn a sense of pride flashed across Mike's face, but the pirate batted the suspension with the knowledge that they both were, indeed criminals. Only some were much more sensible and soft-hearted, while they had their fair bunch of truly despicable as well.

No matter, Mike Schmidt held a category of his own. "I didn't kill him, if that's what your thinking." The man spoke up, raising a brow at the fellow member's sudden silence. "I'm well aware of the codes concerning death and harm to one's own flesh and blood."

"Didn't doubt ya for a second, lad. Just..." The pirate seemed to trail off, wrinkled eyes darting around the deck. Everyone minded their own business, talking to one another in groups of three down, laughing and smiling all the same.

Adjusting his bandanna, Mike put up a false scowl, impatience clear on his features. "What? Spit it out already."

"You got quite a reputation around these parts, lad. Quite popular with crew, and it ain't got nothing to do with yer rank-"

He was interrupted by snickering laughter. "All these fuckers love me, I know. I'm the life of the party and I actually get shit down." A smug smirk found it's way to Mike's face, accompanied by another chuckle. "It's obvious: I'm one snazzy fucker and this whole damn ship is right to respect that. I don't expect anything otherwise."

"Don't let that power get to yer head, boy" The older man snarked. "You deserve authority, but not everybody is as accepting as most. Jealousy reigns high in time like these; you'd do well not to provoke any rival."

As if to emphasis his wise words, he glances down to the compass. "Just because yer surrounded by friendly faces don't mean there ain't a shark in the water." He urged. "You'd best be on your guard."

While the warning was a show of friendly concern, Mike couldn't help but feel amused. Him? A target? Please, as if anyone would have the nerve to make a go at him. He's won more than just a few fights himself and he was not above a murder, though, he'd hardly call it that even. 'Self-defense' would work just as well.

The life of a pirate is full of blood shed and betrayal, two things Mike heartily thrives off of.

He's never been the receiving end. It's better to be quite generous yourself, anyway. "You're shitting me," Mike laughed, "I'm the First-Mate here. I enforce the code and eliminate anybody stupid enough to break it. If some fucker has an issue then they're more than welcome to have a swing at me. I ain't going no where."

With features full of disapproval, the older pirate opened his mouth to retort, only to be cut off by a much deeper, raspier voice. "Such a brave declaration for a lad that could easily be cut-down."

Blue eyes blinked, taken aback by the sudden presence. "What are you-?"

Hot, searing, pain erupted in his skin, a shudder of agony starting at the puncture point in his back and vibrating down his spine. He could feel it; the wet blood spewing through his clothes and seeping through the wound, a steel hook still embedded in his back.

Mike feels his body paralyzed as the hook tugged downwards, sending his nerves into a jutter of cold pain. It was numbing, at least, but not enough to conceal the feel of the weapon's curved point being pushed further into the tissue, sliding under the skin until the pointed end of the hook poked through again, this time on the outside.

"Look at ya; gutted like a fish." Captain Foxy laughter boomed from behind him, malice in his tone. "This is my best catch yet, wouldn't you say so?"

The question was directed to the stand-by pirate, whose face was locked in equal terms of shock and disbelief. Swallowing down his fear, he took one step back, another step, and another until his back hit the edge of the ship's railing, cowering. "Y-yes sir?"

Captain Foxy frowned, displeased. "Ye didn't sound quite sure there, friend. Perhaps this ain't such a prized catch after all." A toothy smile split across his cheek even wider, twisting the hook and sending a shockwave of pain through Mike's back. "Well, we'll just have to throw this one back out to see then, hmm? No need for it, anyhow."

It was still, then they were moving. The Captain tugged his hook in a direction, taking the stricken pirate by skin and hoisting the body until it could be drug along the deck, peers from calm group gatherings before hand now starring as wide-eyed, fear consumed figures, unable to offer any assistance. Or gather the courage to do so, since the man committing the murder could easily make one of them his next victim.

A hush has fallen over the crew, hardly a whisper coming from anyone. Only the sound of the ocean wave's brushing up against the ship's hull reached Mike's ears, and it was growing steadily closer to boot. The soft, gentle splash of water being disturbed was getting louder and louder, and with horrifying clarity, he realizes his position. Foxy has him on the plank.

"It didn't have to come to this, Mikey. You really were a good First-Mate, and I'll be sure to spread the legend of you, misadventures and all." The man behind him snickered. He made his voice loud and clear, as if he wasn't just addressing his victim, but the entire crew as a whole. He held the attention of a crowd more than willing to listen, maybe out of fear more than respect, but it was an effective method, none the less.

It's not just an execution, it's a message.

Captain Foxy's smile suddenly vanished, now replaced by a sickened scowl. "As much as the crew and those held in high regards are fond of you, lad, I don't care for the thought of getting replaced." He spits. "You were a threat. A threat to me and my authority. A threat that is, however, much too easy to eliminate."

A deep rumbling sounds from his throat, edging on laughter. "I'm almost insulted."

There's blood curdling up in the back of his mouth, but Mike manages a breath regardless. "...W-why...are you-"

"It's nothing personal, lad. It's just how things works around here." The curve of the hook digs deeper into his back, and with a sickening slice of flesh being torn, Mike feels something wet and soft get torn from his socket.

"Besides, you never had what it takes to be a captain. The crew's been downing too much rum thinkin' you'd be a better nominee." Foxy snickers, letting the younger pirate drop to the plank.

It's impossible to move. Whatever Foxy tore out of his shoulder was something either vital or highly sensitive, because no matter how heavy he breathed or how hard his heart pounded, his limbs refused to move and his spine was in the worst of it.

This doesn't make any sense...he's taken much worse than a stab wound, and to much more vital organs, too. Mike's always come out on top, no matter the battle, and how he could be cut down so easily with a coy puncture of a single steel hook just didn't add up. No, there had to be other factors in this, something that wouldn't have been in his control had this been an actual duel and not a cheap backstab.

In the next breath, something foul and sour reaches his nose, like burning medicine.

Poison. The hook's been coated with a paralyzer. A weak, unstable one, judging by it's lack of effectiveness, as Mike could still feel his ribcage expanding with every heave. Though it wouldn't last long, it was quick to subdue, giving Foxy the few moments he needed to finish him off.

Dropping to his knees, Mike stares silently out into the murky waters below. There's a voice, a sad, mournful voice assuring him that he'll die from the blood loss long before he's in the icy waters too long for suffering. The voice reassures that his death will be quick, and painless, and something desirable. For once, Mike agrees with it.

A foot plants itself on the back of his neck and he feels his body be pushed inches forward, closer to the watery swarm.

"Let this be a message to all of you."

The captain isn't talking to him anymore, he's addressing the crew entirely, instead. Mike would like to say that he feels a thousand eyes gazing upon him in humiliation, but it's much more frightening to find that it's slowly getting to the point where he can't feel anything at all.

"Any fool drunk enough to underestimate my authority again, either by wagging his tongue or tellin' tales of a so called 'new captain' needs to get it through yer thick skulls that this ship doesn't run a democracy. I have ye all under blood and sword sworn to me, and me only. All who drink under my cast or sail upon my waters follow my code..."

The crowd's whispers go silent, varies expressions varying among members. Some guilty, some angry, and some-namely a certain witchdoctor-were frozen in stances of fear, helpless to do anything.

Foxy gives a wild grin for show, sharp teeth lining his lip. "Those who plot mutiny will be shown no mercy. Gods save ye soul."

He kicks him, and Mike plummets to the waters below.

The fall is nothing less than anticlimactic, though, Mike swears on his father's grave that he hear the crew's sudden uproar of cheer and praise, more out of fear than respect, sound from the deck as the ocean's surface smacked him. A harsh, sting shooting through his skin the split second it made contact, but easily over whelmed with the realization that his death was closing in around him.

He takes back everything he thought before. He remembers his father one claiming that death was peaceful, beautiful and breath-taking.

He hated just how literal the last description came to be.

If he had the ability to move, he'd be clawing at his throat or furiously battling his way back up to the surface again. But the poison had taken it's toll, and the fact that he never really took the time to learn how to handle downwards current or even swim decently wasn't helping the situation either.

A rush of adrenaline flames through his system in the moment of panic, giving him the strength needed to overpower the poison just enough to open his mouth for a scream. It's regretted obviously after, water pooling into his lungs at a much faster rate than he would have preferred.

To his bittersweet relief, consciousness is fading.

No, there's no escaping death this time. Whatever legacy he had obtained over the years was coming to an end, and quite abruptly, too. Sure, there's been close calls; like that one time he stole a whole pitcher of rum from one of the governors lackeys, or when he got caught tampering with a soldier's messenger bag, placing a crudely made firework in the pocket, lighting it as he scampered away.

The look on the soldier's faces and memory of his and Fritz's laughter makes him want to smile, but the memory is fading as fast as he's freezing, going completely and utterly numb.

A flash of green appears in his blurry vision before it all goes dark, but he doesn't remember it.

It's impossible to tell if it's sunrise or sunset, but the view of a pink sky makes Mike want to puke.

So he does. Eyes flying open and torso whipping up forwards, he turns to the side of the sandbank and unleashes a heave of water, his lungs convulsing and stomach lurching as he spews seawater from his throat. It felt more graphic than it reads, and it certainly wasn't a pretty sight to look at, especially with all that blood mixed in.

But holy fuck the oxygen was welcome. The feeling of solid land beneath him wasn't a gift to scoff at either-

Wait, solid land? Wasn't he drowning a few moments ago? Say, in a middle of a god damn ocean with no sight of docks or islands around?

Mike blinks, coughing up the last of his lungs as he stares down at his hands, rotating them in his view. His nerves were his again, even if they were wrecked with pain, he could at least feel human.

Maybe it's just how slow his mind is processing it, given that he shouldn't be alive right now. So without thinking, he digs his hands into the sand, cupping it and holding it a few inches above ground before slowing parting his fingers, blue eyes watching carefully as the grains gently fell from his grasp.

He's dead. He must be dead. There's no way he could have made it out of that shit alive.

As if to spite himself, he raises his hand to his mouth and bites. Teeth puncture skin and he retracts the limb, staring down at the marks with shocked eyes. That was real. This was real and he was breathing.

He was drowning. He was kicked off the planked by the Captain he trusted half of his go damn life, and sent to death. An execution deemed necessary because it just so happened that the crew was beginning to like him more than their own leader, something he couldn't control, something he wasn't responsible for.

He was supposed to die. But he's breathing.

Realization is, ironically: suffocating. A mixture of emotions flooded his chest at an alarming rate, sending his thoughts into a spiral of confusion and relief and anger and other sensations that he can't quite determine what they are and to be honest to actually beginning to scare him.

Mike's so caught up in his thoughts, he doesn't notice the figure sitting a few feet away from him until it decides to make itself known. With a stick.

"Are you...alive?"

Something pointed jabs into his cheek. Reflexively, Mike shuffles away, eyes darting wildly to the assaulting stick before spotting the hand holding it. His chest is still rising up and down in a panting fashion, but it's hard to keep your cool and once you've just faced a life and death situation. Not to mention that being poked rudely in the face didn't sit ok in his book.

Without glancing at the figure's face, he grits his teeth and keeps his gaze on it's 'weapon', as he was taught to. "Who the fuck are you?"

"...I-is that a yes?"

The hand holding the stick is pale and trembling, the person retracting their outstretched hand and keeping their distance. The voice is soft and timid, like sea foam, which was all the better for Mike, since whoever they didn't sound like the interrogative type; meaning they'd thankfully stay the fuck away from him, given his naturally brute like nature. He was not in the mood for chit-chat.

A moment of silence passes and Mike thinks they're about to take their leave, their curiosity or whatever having been satisfied. However, he feels a sneer itch along his face as the stick lowers and prods at one of his legs, tapping the skin ever so tenderly.

"How are you feeling?" A crack sounds in their voice, but they manage to sound naive and confident regardless. "D-do you think you can walk?"