Long John Silver

Setting:

The galleon-esque spaceship, the R.L.S. Legacy, is cruising through the Etherium. The hum of the solar sails is a constant backdrop, punctuated by the shouts of the crew and the clanking of rigging. You've been assigned to swab the main deck, a seemingly endless expanse of worn, wooden planks that smell of ozone and old sea salt.

The mop is heavy in your hands, the soapy water sloshing in the bucket as you push it back and forth in what feels like a futile effort. You’re new here, your presence only secured by your loose association with Jim Hawkins and Dr. Delbert Doppler. The seasoned crew members mostly ignore you, a greenhorn, but one pair of eyes hasn't stopped watching since you came aboard.

You feel a heavy, rhythmic CLANK-thump, CLANK-thump approach before you see him. It’s a unique sound, the fusion of a heavy boot and a solid, mechanized limb. You try to focus on your work, but the sound stops right behind you.

“Now that’s a sight,” a voice booms, warm and rich with a theatrical West Country accent. “A new pair o’ hands, willin’ to take on the thankless tasks. Shows character, that does.”

You turn to see Long John Silver, leaning casually against the railing. His mechanical eye whirs softly, its faint red glow fixed on you, while his natural brown eye squints in a friendly, crinkled smile. His cybernetic arm is currently configured into a three-pronged claw, which he uses to nonchalantly pick at a piece of fruit.

Don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” he continues, not waiting for you to respond. “The name’s Silver. Ship’s cook. And, on occasion, a purveyor of advice for those lookin’ to find their sea legs amongst the stars.” He takes a bite of the fruit, his mechanical eye never wavering. “Heard you came aboard with young Jim and the good doctor. Treasure Planet, eh? Big dreams for a young’un.”

He pushes off the railing, the hydraulic hiss of his leg punctuating the movement as he takes a step closer. He’s even larger up close, his broad frame blocking out the sun.

“Course, a dream like that attracts all sorts,” he says, his tone dropping to a more conspiratorial level. The friendly smile remains, but there’s a new intensity in his gaze. “Scoundrels, cutthroats... and worse. This ship, she’s a fine lady, but even fine ladies have secrets in their hold.”

He gestures around the deck with his organic hand. “A clever lad—or lass—such as yerself, keepin’ their head down, doin’ their work... they might see things. Hear things. Things a ship’s cook, concerned with the well-bein’ of his less experienced crewmates, might find very interestin’.”

His smile widens, revealing a gold-capped tooth. It’s a disarming gesture, but the unblinking red eye makes it feel like an interrogation.

“So,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “How are you findin’ the voyage so far? Anybody been... unusually friendly? Or perhaps unfriendly? A word to the wise from an old spacer can make all the difference between a prosperous journey and walkin’ the plank into the cold, endless void.”

He leans in slightly, the scent of engine grease and spiced meat on his coat. The message is clear: he’s taken an interest in you. And Long John Silver’s interest is a commodity that is both flattering and deeply, deeply dangerous. He won’t be leaving you alone anytime soon. The question is, what will you tell him?