angelo and the hickster's post-belle arctic adventures

[spotsalone]

mutineers:

• Sgt. Solomon Tozer, marine (T)
  
• Magnus Manson, AB (T)
  
• Lt. George Hodgson, lieutenant (T)
  
• Charles Des Voeux, mate (E)
  
• Pvt. William Pilkington, marine (E)
  
• John Diggle, cook (T) - lung damage from inhaling goodsir's evil cloud
  
• THE STUPID FOX
  
• Pvt. James Daly, marine (T) - mauled by the Tuunbaq
  
• Edmund Hoar, captain's steward (E) - throw into the water by the Tuunbaq
  
• "Pvt." Thomas Armitage, gunroom steward (T) - mauled by the Tuunbaq
  
• Harry Goodsir, surgeon (E) - rescued by Silna after the Tuunbaq attack
  

boat boys:

• John Lane, boatswain (T)
  
• James Rigden, coxswain (E)
  
• John Sullivan, captain of the maintop (E)
  
• Robert Ferrier, AB (T)
  
• Robert Thomas, mate (T) - actively dying of scurvy for the crime of having two first names
  
• and perhaps eventually lt. little depending on how much of our minds we lose along the way
  
• Thomas Terry, boatswain (E) - died from scurvy before the mutineers showed up
  
• Thomas Work, AB (T) - died from scurvy before the mutineers showed up

angelo cr chart
mutineers cr chart...

timeline:

• arrival; late july, mutineers' hill
  
• tent chats; early august, temporary camp
  
• spotting the ships; late august, terror camp
  
• tuunbaq attack; sept 1, ice floe camp
  
• boarding terror; fellas it's gay; early sept, hms terror
  
• dog to dog communication; early sept, forecastle
  
• bark bark bark; early sept, on deck
  
• coat! and post-tozer debrief; early sept, angelo's cabin

Comments

shortly after arrival

[spotsalone]

Solomon will come around.

[ A match strikes and Hickey lights his cigarette. He did anticipate some friction between Angelo and Tozer, so that much is not a surprise. The rest... well. Anyone would be startled and suspicious after their abrupt and strange arrival. Those reactions will ease in time, he knows. Some of the men are likely to be over it entirely by the time he and Angelo return to camp, after they've sated themselves on the supplies brought from the palace.

In the meantime, Hickey has walked the two of them to the top of the hill overlooking their camp to get a better view of the area. Hell, maybe they'll even see the Tuunbaq, if it's as nearby as Tozer reported. Wouldn't that be something? ]

He'll recognize your presence as an advantage once he's got a full stomach. We'll let him believe that he's convinced me to direct us back to the ships.

[ It was Tozer's idea, after all. It just wasn't Tozer that changed Hickey's mind on the matter. ]

[cleansheets]

[ It's cold.

It's the first thing Angelo had braced himself for when agreeing to come to the arctic, but he's realizing quickly that he hadn't truly understood cold before. Even though he'd woken up with the ice reaching towards his heart every Monday these past few weeks, that had been different. Situational. This cold seeps through all, constantly. Temperatures lower than colony management would allow, lest the water supply be compromised.

It's cold and it is vast.

Angelo is used to the endless expanse of space, so this shouldn't be a matter of concern, and yet. And yet.

The squabbles with the filthy, starving men at the camp just some short distance away already feel irrelevant in the face of that vastness. Angelo couldn't care less about the man called Solomon and how he feels about his arrival. ("An angel has fallen into the cesspit" - horrible words to remember now, words from a distant past, but seeing the sorry state of the camp for himself has them run through Angelo's head like a strange chorus. Angelo takes in the vastness to drown it all out.)

He exhales, and watches his breath form a small cloud in the air. Cold. ]

The foot soldiers back home didn't like me either. Forcing these in line won't be any different.

[ His eyes aren't on Hickey at all - it's all the endless stone ocean in front and the expanse of the sky, meeting in a straight line. It feels unnatural, though even Angelo can tell that that's a ridiculous thought to have about Earth. ]

[spotsalone]

[ Hickey smirks. This is exactly why he wanted Angelo along. ]

Didn't like you? But you're so charming.

[ An opportunistic flirt coated with just enough sarcasm to keep Angelo guessing. However he interprets the meaning, it's sure to irritate him a little.

Angelo takes in the landscape, and Hickey watches him, analyzing his reaction, collecting data to file away for later use. What must he be thinking, confronted with this reality? Hickey knows some part of him must regret this choice. A life alongside Sariel or Hwylryn would certainly have been more comfortable, despite Angelo's reasons for denying them. Even with the supplies brought back from the palace, their odds of survival—Angelo's odds of survival—are far from a guarantee.

Focusing his attention on Angelo spares Hickey having to reckon with their surroundings himself, too. He's eliminated the concept of regret from his reality, but it's... disturbing, to be back here again. He'd built up a resistance to it before Ish yanked him away, and he's neglected those defenses these past few weeks. There's an uneasiness in the way his eyes dart around. It's subtle, but Angelo knows him well enough now to pick up on those momentary glimpses behind the curtain, if he's paying attention. ]

Sergeant Tozer and Manson are loyal enough, and Tozer can keep Armitage and Pilkington with us. Hodgson and Diggle are here for lack of alternatives, but they won't be any trouble. Fear drives them. The rest...

[ He exhales heavily, smoke swirling around him in a thin haze. He's not stupid; he knows his men have been reduced to feral things, just as likely to bite the hand that feeds as they are to turn tail the second a better opportunity comes along. ]

Des Voeux will challenge you, but he's just a coward with a sharp tongue. You can handle him. Goodsir may become a problem, as well. The doctor.

[ Hickey would be very surprised if the man had the stones to try anything, but he's been testy ever since the Billy incident. It's only a matter of time before that dam gives way. ]

[cleansheets]

[ Angelo huffs. Ah yes, his famed charm that had him convicted of a murder he never even committed just the other day...! It doesn't bother Angelo that he's not likeable (god knows, he isn't trying to be), but he also has no illusions about it.

In his mind, he goes over the names he's only just had listed at him - deciding from Hickey's advice which to memorize and which he can bother to only learn later on.

He finally turns his head to glance at Hickey - in his... well, this isn't really his natural habitat either, is it? He's not an explorer, he wound up here by happenstance. But this is still closer to where he belongs than the illusory world Ish had them confined to, isn't it? ]

I can handle them all - they're in no condition to be anything more than a nuisance, are they now?

[ They look... more miserable than Angelo had expected, actually. It's a little disturbing but he wouldn't say so out loud. ]

But how come the doctor is an issue?

Early August of 1848 - a week after arrival

[cleansheets]

[ It's the evening of the first day when Harry Goodsir, the do-gooder doctor, approaches Angelo. Within the medical tent, between medical equipment and drugs he has never seen, Angelo receives a curt warning about Cornelius Hickey - a man who would stab one he'd once appeared to hold close, and make a meal of him. (It's laughable to be warned, when there is nowhere else to go. When Angelo came here, to the end of the world, to stay with a man who is a monstrous predator, because he had nothing else left.) Goodsir's eyes never leave Angelo as he relays his cautionary tale, and it is clear that he does not like what he sees. These tired eyes that might once have exuded kindness look at Angelo with an exhaustion too deep to even give room for disappointment. It's a horrible way to be looked at. Angelo leaves the tent with a flippant goodbye and knowledge of a new name (Billy Gibson, more meat than man to him). The doctor never calls out to him again, and Angelo no longer allows their eyes to meet.

It's not hard to do, when they all spend so much of their days in harness, staring numbly ahead into the endless white void.

Hauling a boat across the shale turns out to be the most stupidly exhausting thing ever conceived of. It's not the worst thing Angelo's ever had to do, but it is the most physically taxing - he's more muscular than he looks, but these days he finds every single one of those muscles screaming when it is time to settle in for a night's rest. He won't let it show, however. Can't, not when the watchful eyes of Hickey's mutineers are always on him. Angelo is perfectly aware that he is merely tolerated for his physical health and connection to their leader, but these facts buy him as much tolerance as they earn him scrutiny. He must appear alien to all, a mystery to solve... or a problem to fix. He feels their eyes following him around camp, looking for an opening, for an explanation, for a weakness.

Though Angelo would hesitate to call De Veoux the boldest of them, he is the first one to graduate from staring to probing. Questions, on the face of it. Below the surface, palpable jealousy and spite. Angelo's had enough of it before the conversation even begun, so maybe it is not a surprise that his fist winds up meeting the other man's face before long. (He has to assert himself. He has to make himself untouchable, not in the Hickey way but in the only way he knows how. And he has to take it all out on someone). The satisfaction from the punch is shortlived, however, as De Veoux's gums give way far too easily and the way his tooth dislodges like it had barely been held in place at all gives Angelo a full body shudder of disgust. He leaves the scene before he can hear however Hickey smoothes it all over for him. He doesn't thank him for it either.

Angelo doesn't speak to De Veoux anymore. De Veoux doesn't approach him either. Nobody does. They haul the boat in silence. The watchful gazes fall away one by one, until it's only Solomon Tozer left. Angelo wishes that Hickey hadn't decided for the three of them to share a tent. He sleeps bundled up in the furthest corner, and he usually sleeps poorly.

It becomes harder to keep himself tidy, but that doesn't mean Angelo will stop trying. He has exchanged his uniform for a spare set of clothes from the castle, unwilling to let it get worn out by the hard work. He applies perfume every morning. He combs his hair, he shaves. He won't become one of those dead men walking.

And a week passes with growing grim motivation and dull ever-present ache in all his joints. It's Tozer's watch tonight, which Angelo appreciates, because it gives him and Hickey a rare moment of full privacy with each other. Just the two of them in the tent, the thin walls of which provide at least an illusory barrier from everyone else. It makes Angelo feel like he can finally exhale a little.

He sits cross-legged on his bed-roll, a hairbrush a rag and a bar of soap spread out before him. Material to burn is precious, and he understands he cannot waste the water they melt on something as frivolous as washing his hair, but that doesn't mean he's going to give up on some measure of cleanliness!! DIY!!!

As he works soap into the dry cloth best as he's able, he glances over at Hickey. ]

Can you never see the stars from here?

[ It's a random conversation opener, but the matter had been on his mind. The nightsky outside feels eerily bright and empty. ]

[spotsalone]

[ Hickey is lying on his back in his own bedroll, watching Angelo fuss with his soap. There's hardly any point, but Hickey likes that he does this anyway. Appearances are important, and more than that, it's worth doing anything just to keep the mind active.

That's the worst part of this return, he's realized. He readjusted to the circumstances quickly enough, especially without having to worry about hunger or thirst, but one crucial element has changed since he left. Their goal is now straightforward: get back to the ships before a thaw renders them unreachable. Then, survive. The end.

The need for manipulating and planning and spying is over. There is no more game to be played, no opponent for him to best. It's just bright, endless days of hauling their bloody boat across the bloody rocks, ad infinitum—and everyone is too miserable to provide any measure of entertainment. It's boring.

Angelo, however, is less boring (though tiring at times, now that they're stuck in such close proximity). Hickey's made a bit of a game in getting to know him, striking up conversations to confirm or deny some guess about how Angelo might react. More often than he expected, he's correct, although the ones he gets wrong tend to be confident guesses. He hadn't expected such a strong reaction to Des Voeux's tooth, for example. What a day that was. Hickey is tempted to poke that bear again, just for a problem to solve.

He won't, though. Not until he has a real reason. ]

Not in summer, no. In winter, we've a few weeks of darkness to look forward to.

[ He hopes like hell that they're further south by then. Hickey hates the relentless daylight of summer, but winter is far worse. ]

You'll get your stars then, not to worry. An aurora, too.

[cleansheets]

[ An aurora... Angelo's seen photographs, in books about Earth's natural beauty that he had always beheld with some amount of skepticism. Earth wasn't for people like him, after all. To see such a thing for himself... ]

That'll be new.

[ Understatement of the century. Angelo begins running the soaped cloth through his hair, careful and methodical. His eyes remain on Hickey. ]

The aurora, and the proper night sky too. I know the stars from space, but in colony nights the only thing sparkling in the sky is the town above.

late august, 1948; terror camp

[spotsalone]

[ "Do you want us to take it down?"

"Will it be of use?"

Tozer grunts. "Firewood."

"Mm. Don't waste the energy." Hickey flicks a spent cigarette onto the rocks. "Unless it bothers you, Solomon. I did think it cruel that they intended you to go second."

That doesn't get a response. Tozer lets his hollow gaze linger on the gallows for a moment longer, and then turns to trudge back to camp. Hickey follows, the faintest hint of a grin on his lips.

Terror Camp can hardly be called a camp anymore. A scatter of bloodied and broken things lays strewn across the shales: empty canteens, shattered crates, a wig with a rotting strip of scalp left inside. A few tents remain, though they've either collapsed from the wind or been shredded by the Tuunbaq. Worst of all, they were greeted by a line of charred corpses.

Hickey had not intended to return here, but once again the universe has granted him an unexpected boon. Amidst the destruction, Crozier's left them a cache of supplies. Tins of food, lamp oil, spare blankets, a few tools... even a box of ammunition, all packed neatly on an extra sledge. How thoughtful—though Hickey knows it was likely left behind out of necessity and only dressed up as an offering of kindness. He would've done the same.

While he and Tozer did their quick scout of the area, Hickey had left Angelo in charge of overseeing the setup of camp, with instructions to only unload as much as strictly necessary. The days are growing shorter now, little by little, accompanied again by a proper night that makes travel impossible. They will rest through the darkness and set off again at first light. With the wrack of ice jutting up along the northern horizon, they're too close to linger any longer than strictly necessary. ]

Angelo.

[ Hickey nods for his second to join them. It's a little unnerving, how indistinguishable Angelo is from the others now, at least at a distance. If it weren't for the shock of white hair, Hickey would have difficulty spotting him in the crowd. The way he still carries himself like he's above all this helps, too. ]

Well done. The sergeant can take it from here.

[ He looks to Tozer, adding a little questioning hum to the end of the order, as if it's a request. There's a beat of silence, and then his hand finds Tozer's shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. At this, Tozer inhales, and then wordlessly moves to take over their camp construction.

As Tozer heads off, Hickey turns his attention to Angelo. ]

I want you to see something.

[ There's a flash of a smile as he starts them walking north through the remains of Terror Camp, but his demeanor is more stoic since they arrived here. More guarded. They're headed away from the gallows looming at the southern lookout post, but no doubt Angelo has seen it. It's difficult to miss. ]

[cleansheets]

[ With the passing of weeks upon weeks, it has become increasingly difficult to maintain a perfect barrier between himself and the other men. Though Hickey is still the only one who gets the questionable pleasure of extended conversation with Angelo, everyone's now become accustomed to short exchanges with him - or barked commands, more often. When Hickey and Tozer return to the camp just outside the old camp, Angelo is just in the process of snapping at Daly to pull harder on a line and make sure the tent they are pulling up is not standing lopsided.

It's a duty he is happy to abandon when Hickey calls his name. Daly, surely, is equally happy to have his much more companionable Sergeant take over coordinating the set-up. Angelo's and Tozer's eyes meet briefly as they swap places, and Angelo doesn't resist the urge to scowl at him. (He does, at least, successfully resist the even pettier urge to trip him.)

While they are still within earshot of the others, Angelo follows Hickey silently. His nose crinkles in disgust at the stench of Terror Camp the closer they get to the charred bodies, ruined tents and rotting corpse parts. The cold has kept everything somewhat well-preserved, but that small mercy is largely lost on Angelo, who finds it revolting either way. The smell reminds him of a memory from so long ago that he can't hold onto it. (Or is that just his mind protecting him? Charred bodies smell of--) ]

So this is what the beast did for you. This is what vindication looks like.

[ There is no doubt in his mind on who those gallows were once for. ]

[spotsalone]

[ Hickey notes the scowl at Tozer and is both charmed and irritated by it. So much for his prediction that the two would get along with time, though he suspects Angelo is purposely thwarting that plan.

For now, it's not a problem, though he's keeping a close eye on the two of them.

He notes, too, Angelo's tendency to reserve their conversations for when he's sure the others can't overhear them. ]

Yes.

[ What was the line he had used on Hodgson? Survival is a nasty piece of business. His eyes drop as he considers how much he wants Angelo to know, though he finds he has an odd compulsion to give him the full story. He's curious to see what Angelo will do with it. ]

Crozier was lying to us. Our captain. We were never going to make it out here alive under his command, but most of the men couldn't see that. They were too loyal to the idea of him.

[ They walk past the tattered remains of a tent, its canvas stained with a thick streak of blood. Hickey ignores it. These things have ceased to register as horrific to him. ]

An opportunity to change that arose. I killed two men and blamed it on the natives that Crozier promised would help us, but I was caught. Tozer, too. I gave the order to arm those friendly to us, and he did so. Following that order nearly cost him his life.

[ He shoots a glance at Angelo. Solomon has all but lost his bite since then, but he earned his position among the mutineers. What a force he was, especially that day. They made a good team. ]

I had a noose around my neck when the Tuunbaq attacked. It interrupted my last words. That's how narrowly I evaded death.

[ He says it to impress upon Angelo how uncannily fortunate its timing was, but the words twist in his gut. For the briefest instant, he wants to double back and tell Tozer to tear down the gallows after all. Burn it. Erase it from this reality.

Vindication. He chose the word deliberately because he chose the emotion deliberately. To say he felt relief would be to admit that he felt fear, and that won't do. Besides, it was the sour kind of relief. Not the relief of an exhale, but a dizzying near miss, a premonition of what almost was, felt in the body. The kind that would bring him to his knees if he were a weaker man.

But what good would such a reaction do? If he allowed himself to crumble over unproductive emotions, his corpse would be one more in the line of burnt bodies. ]

The creature's chaos provided a distraction for us to make off with one of the boats.

september 1st, 1948; camp on the pack

[angelkeys]

[ Goodsir observes. These days, it's all he does. He'd begun this expedition as quite the sociable man, eager to share his knowledge and learn in turn. Now there is nobody left he'd like to speak to. Though Hickey's group of mutineers might have once been decent men, they have shed all their morals along with their pride. Though rich in culture of its own, the region known to its natives as Nunavut rejects all markers of civilization from outsiders. In the merciless beauty of the arctic, Englishmen become as beasts. Even if Goodsir had wanted to appeal to them, he doesn't have words left that could reach them. Least of all now that Cornelius Hickey has, against all odds, worked them a miracle.

It confounds Goodsir, trying to imagine just how Hickey has accomplished it. He is half-tempted to suspect they have all fallen under some kind of hypnosis, so unbelievable is the idea that Hickey has, from one moment to another, procured a wealth of supplies. And what supplies! Nothing like the tinned food that had been equally sustaining and draining them. Instead they'd been presented with food fit for a Gentleman's Club, including fresh fruit to ward off the scurvy that had long begun devastating them.

And along with the tastes they'd almost forgotten, Hickey had brought a young man. Angelo Sauper is mysterious in his origins. The way the mutineers glance at him when they think he's not looking reminds Goodsir of the way the men would sneak to the hold to catch glimpses of Silence. But Sauper is no Silence - he had none of her grace and restrained dignity. Instead Sauper reminds him of Hickey in many ways. Both of them seem to have become rotten early on, now hellbent on spitting on the world they believe has wronged them. They are dangerous men. The fact that they seem to be more wrapped up in each other than anything else is only a small comfort here. Before long, Hickey's newfound power will become explosive. It's a feeling that keeps nagging at Goodsir, and he keeps on observing until he can't anymore.

It's the remains of Terror Camp that spur him into action. The charred remains of men he once knew have brought their little group into a melancholy mood, but it dissipates as soon as Hickey (naturally it is Hickey) brings word that there's been a thaw. They will cross the breaking pack and reach the boats, which are still manned by living skeleton crews. They will complete the passage, Hickey says, and something twists up and dies inside Goodsir.

Whatever may come, he cannot conscience allowing the rot that befell them here to return to the homeland, for a Hickey lauded with grand accomplishments to spread it and carry it further and further. He cannot allow it because Hickey is unforgivable, those who follow him without question are unforgivable, and because there is no telling what further dark magics he would conjure in the future.

As soon as they step onto the ice, Goodsir knows what he must do. In a strange twist of fate, it feels like his very own miracle. His feet land on the blinding snow and he feels... he feels. The sensation of foreboding that had overcome him when parting from Lt. Gore at Victory Point had been but a mere distant echo of the feeling that overcomes him now. He can recognize it now. The Tuunbaq is here.

All horror Goodsir had once felt at the thought of the creature has long passed. Now he and it are one, united by a simple desire: to free this world of those who should have never come to taint it.

In his little safe haven, his lonely medical tent, Goodsir begins sorting through his cures - no, his chemicals. A grim resolve fills every muscle in his body. Hickey has forced his hand, turned him into something abhorrent... and because of it, his once-pounding heart beats oddly steady as he considers his options. ]

[cleansheets]

[ While dinner preparations are underway, Angelo is counting supplies. It's a task he has not been given so much as seized for himself at the moment of his arrival. It puts him at ease to be back at work - some strange semblance of it, at least. Their little camp is nothing like a military base, but the work needs doing and the numbers are important. Though they are not in dire straits yet, they have been using the Goldner tins more and more often again - thanks to Hickey's warning, Angelo has made certain to avoid them as much as possible, but even that is getting rough. It's high time they get to the ships and... well, Angelo hopes there are any other provisions left on deck.

They are making good progress at least. The pack is easier to traverse than Angelo had feared. Though the floes are coming apart, they are of big enough size that they are entirely stable - they can be walked and camped on without issue. As long as one doesn't look at the leads for too long, it is easy to forget they're not on solid land. For all his faults, De Voeux is doing a good job keeping track of the ships' ever-changing position and adjusting their course accordingly. When he says they have only another day and a half of to go, Angelo does actually believe him. Anticipation is rising by the minute, and it's making him fussier.

Thus, Angelo is in the middle of adding markers to his little notebook, frown deepening, when Mr. Diggle fires up the soyer stove for their increasingly flavorless evening meal. Burning material is another thing they are running low on now. There were a lot of books on the boat, the pages of which make for an excellent fire starter, but their library is dwindling. Today's offering to the flames is a copy of Leviathan, if Angelo recalls correctly. It catches fire dutifully, but this time it's not followed by the equally dutiful sizzling of flames. Instead, there is a billowing of smoke and a shout from Mr. Diggle.

The cook stumbles backwards, coughing violently, but Angelo doesn't care about that. The smoke, pungent and biting in smell, is spreading rapidly through their camp. Discarding his little notebook haphazardly, Angelo pulls up his collar to safeguard his nose and lets his eyes dart through the haze. He wants an explanation, and for that anyone will do, but more importantly, he needs to locate Hickey. ]

What is going on?! Put that out immediately! Don't just stand there!!

[spotsalone]

[ It's colder, out on the ice. On King William's Land, the cold was sharp and biting. Out here, it's a wetter thing, a chill that seeps in and soaks your bones. Back at Terror Camp, Hickey dug his scarf out of the wreckage of his old tent, and he's worn it ever since. It doesn't help.

They can't afford the energy to set up a full camp each night. Instead, it's bare essentials: three tents, and Diggle's makeshift kitchen. Tonight, it's two tents—this floe is too awkward to risk hauling more than that out of the boat.

These are the reasons Hickey will give should Angelo comment on the new arrangement in their tent. With Manson and now Hodgson packed in with them, there's little room for personal space. Hickey is doing a kindness, sparing Angelo having to deal with the other men by slotting himself in as a buffer. Angelo even gets to continue to hug his precious tent wall. A win all around.

But, really, it's all bullshit. Alone in the tent as he unfurls bedrolls, Hickey grins at that private joke. Angelo may even see through it, but Hickey doesn't care. He just wants to see how much he can get away with.

The moment is lost as he hears Angelo yelling outside. That's admittedly not an uncommon sound around camp, but the tone is off. Something is wrong.

Hickey's hand touches the knife in his pocket as he emerges from the tent—and instead darts up to pull his scarf over his face. Tozer and his marines are already dismantling the stove, working one-handed and covering their mouths with their sleeves. Diggle... may be a lost cause, but Hodgson and Hoar are dragging him away from the fumes anyway.

With all that sorted, Hickey finds Angelo. His hand hooks around Angelo's arm to pull him further upwind. ]

What happened—?

[ He's barely gotten the question out when the ice beneath them pitches violently. It's enough to knock anyone upright off their feet—and to topple the stove onto Daly. The marine screams, though whether he's crushed or burning or panicking, Hickey can't tell. He went down hard and only manages to scramble into a crouch to assess the damage. A tent is down. He can't see the boat from here, but he didn't hear any wood splintering. Whatever's going on with Daly, the smoke is abating. Their floe groans as it grinds against its neighbors, still rocking as it resettles, recovers—

—from an impact, Hickey realizes, just before a hideous roar erupts from over the ridge they've built their camp against.

He sucks in a measured breath.

Alright.

Fear is a choice.

He tucks his scarf back into his coat. ]

We need guns.

[ He looks to Angelo, his expression sharp with an intensity that he reserves for these confrontations with death. Guns. Where are they? ]

early september, 1948; hms terror

[royalmarine]

[ Go for broke. It was Tozer's suggestion. It was a good suggestion, a safer strategy than trying to camp on the ice again. Hickey's stunt bought them time, but Tozer doubts it killed the bear, and two among them are seriously injured. The boat is easier to maneuver with their tents thrown overboard. Their progress is slow as they negotiate the maze of ice in the dark, exhausted as they are, but they cover more distance than they would if they stopped to rest properly.

Still, that night on the boat is their most miserable yet. Rowing is worse than hauling, leaving their bodies cramped and aching, doing little to fend off the chill. Without the extra weight, their tiny vessel is precariously balanced, prone to tilting awkwardly as they swap positions to rest and eat. They've a permanent pool of seawater at their feet. Hodgson attempted to bail it out with an empty can once, but quickly gave up once he measured the futility of the effort against his own fatigue. To sleep, they take turns curling up next to Diggle on their remaining tent stowed at the bow of the boat, under what's left of their rotting blankets now stiff with frost. They eat half-frozen rations straight from the tins, some of which smell rather foul but they can't bring themselves to care. They've certainly eaten worse.

Tozer takes over at the tiller when Hickey finally agrees to rest, and Sauper trades Manson an oar to join him. From the other end of the boat, Tozer can only watch their silhouettes settle together in the darkness. He wonders if Hickey even sleeps anymore or if it's just another thing he pretends to do. The other men have noticed his strange behavior since they changed course, but they've long since stopped whispering about it. His refusal of food and water could be explained away with thin suggestions that he simply eats when they aren't looking. They ran out of such excuses once they took to the water, and yet he remains the strongest of the group. Weirder still, his seemingly endless supply of cigarettes when the rest of them used up the last of their tobacco rations weeks ago.

None of that is nearly so troubling as the mysterious appearance of so many supplies—and Sauper. Angelo. The other men were happy enough to ignore the oddity, too desperate to care. Tozer was too, for a time, but Hickey's silence on the matter is too loud. Master manipulator though he is, Hickey is at his most dangerous when he's quiet. It means that, whatever he's thinking, he doesn't want you to know about it. Tozer didn't mind this so much when he was privy to some of those secrets. He was the first to know about Neptune, and Hickey was the first to know about Lt. Fairholme's sledge party. The two of them clawed themselves out of their own graves together. He nearly died for his belief in Hickey's plan.

He hated seeing the gallows again because it was a reminder of how right Crozier was. He will burn through you like fuel. Tozer should have kept to himself about Mr. Collins. That was the moment Hickey decided he was used up, he knows. Too-gentle hands cradling his head, the haze of tobacco smoke, those eyes, half-shadowed in the darkness of the tent. Tozer would have said yes to anything. He felt his own soul being consumed, the last of his spirit sucked out of him as he allowed himself to be blindfolded with a lie. There was more hope in following Hickey into hell than following nothing at all.

Tozer wishes he could chalk the unease over Sauper up to something as simple as jealousy.

In the end, Des Voeux overshoots with his estimate. The sun is rising as they break free from the claustrophobic jumble of bergs and into relatively open water. There's still leads to navigate, but the floes surrounding them now are largely flat, shallow enough to clearly map the path ahead of them—and to spy the ships, closer than they had imagined and pointed in their direction. Pilkington is the first to cheer, with Hodgson, Des Voeux, and a nervous Manson weakly echoing his excitement.

At the back of the boat, Tozer remains stoic, focusing his attention on steering them through a channel of narrow switchbacks. To him, the sight of Terror looming before them feels more like an omen than salvation. Returning to the ship is their best chance of survival, but look at what it's cost them to get here. Only seven of them remain (eight if you count Sauper, which Tozer does not) and he suspects their numbers will thin further before this is done. They won't make it back to England this year. They won't even make it out of the arctic labyrinth. Whatever supplies remain on the ships are not surely not enough to see them through a fourth winter. And how will they explain their last few months to the men on the ships?

Reboarding Terror is anticlimactic. Their men are too spent to conjure any fanfare and Terror's scant crew isn't much better off. Unloading the boat proves to be a monumental task, made difficult from the waves and the strength required for navigating the ladder. Hickey and Sauper accompany Lane to the quarterdeck, and Tozer is not invited but he follows anyway. Hickey does not turn him away. Instead, he works more of his magic: Lane has been in on the mutiny since its conception, choosing to stay aboard Terror as his own form of turning from Crozier's grand plan. How Hickey managed to recruit Terror's boatswain within less than an hour of Billy first pitching the idea, Tozer can't fathom. He didn't even know the two of them spoke in that time.

Thus, no questions are asked. There are no crimes nor oddities to answer for. Lane even accepts the mystery of Sauper, not wanting to more closely interrogate the mystic nature of this place. The Tuunbaq has shown them all that anything is possible. Hickey has shown Tozer that anything is possible. What sort of demonic deal has he made to accomplish such things? Christ, he'll probably be able to talk himself out of that, too.

With their combined crews, they've two lieutenants, a boatswain, and a sergeant—yet it's the caulker's mate with his hand on the helm as he gives the order to flag for Erebus. Transfer everything of use onto Terror and abandon the flagship so they can hurry south to prepare for winter. Then, at Sauper's urging, the two of them move below deck. There is no mention of Goodsir's betrayal, of what they did to Billy, of the way Sauper pawed through Tommy's broken body with less care than a butcher. All of Tozer's marines have died under his watch. Pilkington remains, but he was an Erebite, adopted by Tozer after Bryant's death but not his, not like Daly or Heather or even Armitage. Tozer knows none of these men will be spoken of again. The others are happy enough to forget.

Lane's remaining men prepare supper: salted meats and rat, mixed together so it's easier to ignore the tang of rodent in each bite. Disgusting, but a different disgusting than the tins, and a larger portion than they've seen since before the mutiny. They can't afford it, but they need to, with how much energy they've expended today—and how much work they've left to do scavenging Erebus.

Somehow, Hickey winds up in Crozier's room. Somehow, no one questions it. With fifteen of them now and as much coal as possible brought over from Erebus, they risk lighting the furnace on the lower deck. Each of them gets a cabin to themselves and the once-coveted prospect of beds is tarnished as they realize the men who last occupied them are dead. Hickey instructs Manson to take Billy's cabin and Manson asks if he can sleep on the bench in the great room instead. Of course, Hickey obliges.

"Go and rest, sergeant. You aren't needed here," is what Hickey says to shoo him out of the captain's quarters. The words are soft but strained as Hickey struggles with the buttons of his coat, hands trembling. He's hidden the pain well, but away from the eyes of the crew, he allows Tozer to glimpse a raw humanity in him that hasn't been visible since his lashing. Tozer can't tell if this is a strategic allowance or if he truly can't muster the strength to keep up the facade.

Tozer lingers in the doorway. "Where did you learn how to build a bomb, Cornelius?"

Hickey glances up. Both of them are surprised by the question. There's a long few beats of silence, the pair of them studying each other, and then Hickey sets his jaw, as if he's on the verge of a real answer—

Sauper brushes past Tozer with a box of medical supplies taken from the sick bay. "Another time," Hickey says quickly, nodding for the marine to see himself out.

Tozer has less choice in the matter with Sauper here to slide the door closed. Then, he's alone, left to grit his teeth and stew. He feels more like himself than he has in months, with a relatively full stomach and the promise of a decent night's sleep ahead of him. With the furnace going, the ship is warm enough to shed his slops, and the slow rock of waves beneath his feet reminds him that no longer must they wring every ounce of forward momentum out of their own weary bodies. There is hope now, if only a little.

But that hope rekindles a fire in Tozer. It's a delicate little flame, threatening to burn itself out again as suddenly as it appeared, but it's enough to reject the silent obedience now expected of him. He leaves the great room, blowing right past the first lieutenant's cabin he knows he has no right to claim, intending to find an open steward's berth... but instead, he winds up in the surgeon's room, accessible through the officers' mess. It's the only cabin that shares a wall with the captain's. He drops his gun onto the bed. His.

That settled, he finds Hodgson in his old cabin, absently considering himself in the shaving mirror he once left behind. He's finally removed his lieutenant's longcoat.

"Gather the men in the forecastle," Tozer commands. "We need to address our current situation."

Hodgson blinks, seemingly puzzled that Tozer is talking to him at all. "And Mr. Hickey?"

Tozer shakes his head. "Let him rest."

Hodgson hesitates, but then nods, and the two of them head off to round up their pathetic little crew. The path forward may be brighter, but it's less straightforward than simply hauling their way north. They've business to sort out if they're going to survive this. ]

[cleansheets]

[ There is a certain satisfaction in shutting the door in Tozer's face. None of Angelo's current mood is Tozer's fault, but residual dislike makes him an acceptable target for it even despite his admittedly impressive showing during the Tuunbaq attack. It's the aftermath thereof that is getting to Angelo - days old blood is clinging to him, a constant stench that lingers around his body and makes him nauseous. He'd be nauseous either way, the swaying of the ship barely better than that of the boat (worse, maybe, but only time will tell), but he'd prefer to endure his sea-sickness to be endured under the smell of roses. Once he's entirely by himself, Angelo will want spend several hours scrubbing himself down until his skin is nearly raw... but for now, merely discarding his coat may be the best he can do. Eager to get to that part, Angelo turns his back to the door and marches inside the room. He barely glances at Hickey before he's dropped all of his supplies off on the table, giving him dignity to fumble with his own buttons in peace. ]

I've got everything I need to clean your injury and wrap it back up properly. I tried to look for something to dull the pain, but this ship does not have a drop of alcohol in its storage.

[ It had briefly felt like an oddity, but then he'd recalled just how long this expedition had already been at sea. With great care, Angelo slips the cigarette case out of his chest pocket where it had been resting for the entirety of their journey. His fingers hesitate for a second before placing it on the table so he can throw his sullied overcoat into the far corner of the room. As he'd already feared, the blood has seeped through to stain his button-up undershirt a dark red. This blemish won't disappear so easily. Life as a human covers him in filth, inescapably. It's the world Hickey has brought him into, but Angelo cannot help wondering how much more disgrace it would take for Hickey to change his mind on the matter.

Annoyed with himself for such a thought, he busies himself wetting a washcloth in the basin of water he's brought in. ]

[spotsalone]

[ Hickey is still thinking over Solomon's question as he and Angelo undress. It feels like a lifetime ago that Hickey's greatest worry was being asked such a thing—and by a marine, no less. Tozer finding him out would've been a death sentence, once upon a time.

But Hickey wasn't going to deflect the question now. He wasn't going to lie, though he hadn't quite decided how much of the truth he would tell before Angelo's interruption. It's for the best, probably. His mind is not as sharp as it should be for such a conversation, distracted by pain and exhaustion as he is.

It's the fingers brushing his cigarette case that snap him back to the moment. He shudders at the touch and lets his coat drop to the floor. ]

I don't need anything for the pain.

[ Unconvincingly said through a grimace as he works off his shirt. His chest hurts far worse than it did on the boat, due to both the lack of adrenaline in his system and his insistence on downplaying the severity. It looks worse than it is, a line he's deployed several times today. If he pretends now, he can get away with repairing his case more quickly in the coming days, but Christ, he barely has the energy for it.

He fails to find a way to lift his arms without splitting open his skin again, so he finds a bloodstained tear in his shirt and just rips the damn thing off. His patience is spent. He sits on the edge of the bunk, using the rags of his shirt to catch a trickle of red that's escaped the bandages. His whole front is a mess, he realizes. He's been reopening his wounds since Angelo first tended them and his bare stomach is stained with rusty trails of blood and sweat.

But what's more alarming is the state of Angelo's shirt. Hickey's breath catches when he sees the dark splotch. ]

You're not hurt, are you?

early september, 1848; forecastle

[royalmarine]

[ Tozer doesn't ask Hickey about the bomb again. He doesn't ask about what Manson saw two nights ago, either. Thinks he saw. Manson was very clear on that point, that it was dark and he was tired and maybe he just saw what he wanted to see, his mind shielding him from the sight of his leader and friend so grievously injured. And maybe that's true. Maybe it was Manson's eyes playing tricks—but the trick was enough to inspire Manson to tell Tozer about it in confidence. Not something to ignore.

So, Tozer watches. More often than not, Hickey keeps to himself in the greatroom, rarely venturing beyond the lower deck, presumably to avoid navigating the ladders. When he does, there's a careful show of pained expressions and the occasional grunt. He keeps his coat tightly buttoned to hide any glimpse of his bandages, even inside the ship. Twice, he excuses himself under the implication that he's bled through his dressings.

If it's an act, it's a damn good one, and Tozer is content to buy into it against his better judgment. It matches how Hickey behaved after he was flogged, threading that needle between openly suffering and putting on a brave face. And that's why Tozer is here, isn't it? The plan to capture Lady Silence took initiative and courage that command should've respected more than they did. He understands the need to maintain rank, but even factoring that in, the unnecessarily cruel punishment revealed the captain's true colors long before Hickey told him about Crozier's plan to abandon them all.

Tozer saw that courage again back on the ice floe. Hickey never has been one to shy away from danger, but his plan... Tozer never would've thought to employ explosives. Where the hell did that come from? Every time Tozer begins to doubt, begins to convince himself that they've used up the last of their luck, Hickey pulls some new trick out of his sleeve. It's as impressive as it is maddening. Tozer understands Hickey less and less with each passing day. Part of him doesn't want to question it just to keep up the illusion for himself. Hickey is hiding plenty from all of them, but the secrecy is working, and maybe that's all he needs to know. He can turn a blind eye to whatever dark magic Hickey is toying with if it gets them home alive. He's ignored plenty else already, between Farr and Irving and Gibson. He will burn through you like fuel. Crozier's words continue to haunt him.

But then, there's a moment. Most of the men are on deck, feebly lowering sails for the day. Hickey is supervising from the quarterdeck as he smokes. From up in the ratlines, Tozer watches Hickey move to return the cigarette case to his pocket, but it slips out of his gloved hand and clatters onto the deck. Hickey snatches it up again quickly, inspecting the cover before tucking it back into his coat—but what he doesn't do is more telling. There's no wincing, no checking his bandages. For that brief moment, he doesn't move like a man sporting a near-fatal injury, and it's enough to make Tozer wonder.

Later, after the sails are sorted, Hickey retreats to the greatroom with Lane and Hodgson to discuss the charts. With the remaining men up on deck or resting, the forecastle is empty... save for Angelo. He's seated at a table with one of his insufferable little scowls, apparently trying to mend Hickey's coat. Irving's coat. Does Angelo know about its previous owner? Does he know the name of the man whose bed he now sleeps in, or the steward whose job he's apparently taken, or the men that used to sit at this table? Does he know that barely a yard away, Hickey's blood still stains the floorboards? Does he know who those gallows were for, and why?

Tozer has to imagine Hickey is keeping as many secrets from his new pet as he is from Tozer. Maybe that's the key, then. Come at this from a different angle, if only to try and slide his way back into his role as confidant. Before Tozer crumbled in front of him, Hickey would've included Tozer in whatever strange plans he's made, especially with Billy gone. He needs to ensure he's back on that ladder. How he'll do that, he has no idea, but his gut tells him it starts with Angelo. That's his competition, after all, even if he's only gunning for third position now.

So: he makes his way to the table. He hovers warily for a long beat, eyes moving between the coat in Angelo's hands and that strange uniform he's back to wearing. Finally, he nods at the former. ]

There are other coats.

[ He doesn't sit, not yet. ]

[cleansheets]

[ Angelo is not clean in any sense of the word, but he is cleaner and that alone is enough to make him come alive again. The salt levels of the sea water had been an unpleasant surprise as he'd only known filtered water for all his life, but despite the smell and sting of it, it did a better job cleaning the layers and layers of grime off his body than mere moist rags ever had. For the first time in weeks it feels as if his perfume stands a fighting chance in winning against body odor. It raises his spirits even when his emotions are in a constant state of disarray and his body is in a constant state of hunger.

So Angelo gets to work. He's not much use in sailing, though he's being taught basic tasks step by step, but he does know how to organize. Within the first day, he gets their new stock of supplies listed. On the second day, he enlists every idle hand he can find to help him scrub the living area and gather as much dirty laundry as can be spared for a day or two of washing and drying. Now that it's evening, his hands are sore from all the water he's been handling, but he feels something like satisfaction with his work. This boat cannot become a home, but it can become a serviceable as a refuge. In the tents, Angelo spent every day feeling sick. He thinks he can upgrade this situation to 'merely uncomfortable' with some more deep cleaning and... well, a bit more built-up resistance to the swaying of a ship, which he is told is extremely mild as of yet. It shouldn't be so different from low-G, but the lack of control he has over the tilting of his own body is troublesome, and he does not relish the thought of it getting worse.

Now, with evening upon them, Angelo has finally let go of his involuntary workforce lest he risk another mutiny. The forecastle is nice and empty, spacier than his claustrophobic little berth, and he's settled in with the remains of Hickey's coat on his lap. He's cleaned the blood out of the fabric yesterday, best as he was able, and dried it next to the engine. The stains aren't gone if you know where to look, but the darkness of the cloth camouflages the remnants well enough. Now it's time to turn he tatters back into some kind of coherent garment. Angelo isn't a master needleworker by any means, but he is nothing if not determined... and focused, until Tozer decides to enter the scene.

Angelo looks up with a frown. There is absolutely no invitation for Tozer to sit, as he is not welcome, but Angelo has no means to stop him if he decides to anyway.]

I know. I counted them. He just happens to like this one.

[ A level of significance that might not be lost on Tozer, given his status as Hickey's co-conspirator. Hm. ]

[royalmarine]

[ Just happens to like it. Tozer's expression is stoic, the slight pinch of his brow more a product of exhaustion than irritation. ]

He didn't tell you why?

[ This is already a perilous conversation. Tozer is in no hurry to betray any secrets Hickey might be intentionally keeping, but... Manson shared another revelation, one that he did not walk back: This mysterious power Hickey now has may actually be Angelo's doing.

It's a reasonable theory, and one Tozer isn't sure what to do with. He needs more information. ]

early september, 1848; on deck

[cleansheets]

[ Although Angelo is anxious to run and inform Hickey right the moment Tozer leaves his table, there is no use in haste. Hickey is still holed up in the greatroom with the others, and restlessly pacing about would only signal to Tozer that he succeeded in getting to him. Frustrated and no longer as focused as he was before, Angelo thus does the only thing that makes sense: he simply keeps sewing. Even as the map discussion group finally disperses, Angelo makes a point to wait a bit longer. He has a line of stitches to finish, the second claw-mark to be nearly erased from the fabric. It's satisfying, to drown out the marks of this foreign God, and replace them with his own sutures. Though Angelo hadn't lied to Tozer about his motivations for mending the ruined clothing, he hadn't told the whole truth either.

It's dark when Angelo finally climbs up to the ship's deck to find Hickey. Though he's wrapped in a thick coat of his own, he shudders at the cold air hitting his face. He'd been freezing ever since he arrived here, but lately it feels as though it had been getting colder by the day. He can only hope that part of that is an illusion brought about by comparison with the heated interior of the ship.

It only takes following the smell of tobacco to find Hickey at the ship's railing. ]

Tozer is more sly than I gave him credit for.

[ That counts as a greeting, surely. ]

[spotsalone]

[ Discussing the charts goes as well as it can. According to Lane, Crozier instructed their group to meet at Cape Herschel on the southern shore of King William Land, should the ships break free from the ice come summer. They're well behind schedule, though. Between the late thaw and the lack of able-bodied manpower, progress has been extraordinarily slow. Crozier told them to turn around if there was no sign of the overland group by September 1, yet here they are, still crawling south toward the uncharted leg of the Passage.

It's practicality, argues Lane. When the pack finally unclenched its jaws, they knew it was likely too late to make the rendezvous point, but there were no leads to the north, and retracing their steps would only trap them again. South is their only option. There will be sheltered harbors near Cape Herschel to overwinter in.

And if they do happen upon any remnants of Crozier's group, well... Won't that be something?

Hickey allows Lane and Hodgson to plot their course without argument. The charts mean little to him, and he gleans all he needs to know from the conversation between their two best experts. It's possible that Des Voeux may have an opinion or two to add to the mix, but Hickey is in no hurry to grant that scab of a man access to the officers' table.

So: It's south, then, as far as they can make before winter closes in. They've a week or two of decent sailing ahead of them, a month if they're lucky, and that will have to do.

He escapes to the deck as soon as the others shamble in from furling sails for the night. The cold is miserable, as ever, but he minds it a bit less with his newfound immortality. He's wearing his scarf again, somehow relatively unsullied by the Tuunbaq's claws, although the death of his coat means he's stuck with a heavy, too-big overcoat. It's warmer than the longcoat and will hide his chest more effectively, but he dislikes the way it bags around him. He keeps getting stuck on things.

He's just lit a cigarette when he hears the main hatch open. It's Angelo, thankfully. Hickey grins. They haven't seen much of each other yet today.

The vague news about Tozer does not immediately concern him. There's a fair chance Angelo is grousing over some minor irritation. ]

What's he done?

[ He offers Angelo the cigarette and very kindly resists an "I told you so". ]

[cleansheets]

[ Angelo snatches the cigarette up as if it were a matter of course. It's a horrible development any way you look at it, his newfound willingness to pollute his body with substances and another man's saliva, but Angelo's not in the mood to care too much about it. It's easy to fall back to what might generously be called 'self-medication' and his nerves certainly need it. ]

He's trying to find an in.

[ This doesn't explain anything, but only after taking a drag of nicotine that he feels like elaborating. ]

Apparently I'm the weaker link to him - he came to me to probe about the state of your health, and made very clear that he thinks what he says or doesn't say about it to the rest of the group will be of consequence.

early september, 1848; angelo's cabin

[spotsalone]

[ Tozer looks ready for a fight when the cabin door locks behind them, and the suspicion only worsens when Hickey offers him a cigarette.

"At ease, sergeant. I'd like to make some things clear to you regarding our present situation."

It's odd, discussing the events of Chateau Ambregris as new information, even with as little as he relays to Tozer. Being stolen from their world by a witch and forced to participate in his death ritual could not sound more insane—until Tozer point blank asks if that witch is Angelo. The resulting laugh is so earnest that it must lend credibility to the rest of the story. It does explain the supplies, Tozer reasons, as well as the supernatural timing of it all. Besides: when Hickey lies, the lies are believable. Lying about this would be ludicrous.

He shows Tozer his chest, but not the cigarette case. The exact nature of his immortality will remain a closely guarded secret, but Tozer can know why Hickey no longer eats or drinks, why he remains healthy and strong as the rest of them deteriorate. The other men have noticed this, Tozer comments. It's a risk to continue with such an obvious signal that something is not right. Hickey agrees, but their rations are precious and he won't compromise them for the sake of this secret.

This resolve earns him back some trust, surely, as Tozer doesn't question Hickey's claim that he's returned here to get the rest of them home safely. Whether the marine buys that as the real reasoning or just wants to believe it is, Hickey can't tell. In any case, it's not a complete lie. "I would be sorry to see you die here," Hickey says, and means it.

Why Angelo has returned with him is a question he doesn't answer. He almost chances it, ready to leave Tozer with a barebones explanation that Angelo would have perished otherwise, but he thinks better of it. He remembers the agreement they made back on the palace stairs. Would this qualify as a breach of that contract? He thinks not, but relations with Angelo are too fraught to guess incorrectly. Instead, he licks his lips and tells Tozer he'll need to ask Angelo for that particular story.

There's still plenty Hickey does not reveal, but by the end of their short conversation, Tozer is satisfied. It's enough to repair the rift between them, and it's enough for Tozer to back Hickey and Angelo's efforts to conceal these secrets. He's already reassured Manson, as a matter of fact. No one else suspects any strangeness regarding Hickey's injury. They're in the clear, for now.

Though as he makes his way back into the empty great room, Tozer asks one last question: "Before all of that... You had no intention to turn us around and make for the ships, did you?"

Hickey grins through his irritation. "No. I had a plan to harness the Tuunbaq's power." He does not say whether that plan would've prioritized the safety of anyone but himself, but Tozer likely guesses the truth of it given how his jaw squares at the answer.

"And now you no longer need it. Lucky, that."

"Yes. The path ahead of us is a brighter one."

Tozer hums and sees himself out without another word. His footsteps echo heavily as he makes his way forward and up the main hatch to join the others on deck.

The conversation being dealt with should bring Hickey greater relief than it does, but there's still a knot of unease lodged in his stomach. It makes him restless. He's likely revealed too much again, though there was little chance in avoiding it, and Tozer is smarter than Hickey once gave him credit for. Odds are slim that Tozer will try to outwit or undermine him, but there are now too many moving parts for Hickey to track all at once. He's in a precarious position these days.

He resists the urge to light another cigarette and instead makes his way to Angelo's cabin. He slides the door halfway open without knocking; Angelo had to have heard Tozer's exit, and thus should be expecting him. ]

I've sorted things out with Sergeant Tozer. You needn't worry about his loyalty.

[cleansheets]

[ Despite the close proximity they are all stuck in, it turns out to be amazingly easy to not say much to one another over the course of a day. There's too much to do to keep them on course, and once that is taken care of, Angelo's invented a whole slew of other chores to drown himself in. The work does a lot to redirect the nervous energy in his system, at least, so by the time Hickey embarks on his diplomatic negotiations with Tozer, Angelo feels a lot more level-headed than he did last night.

He's seated on his bed when Hickey invites himself in, looking up at him with a serious expression as he gets the initial status report. He'd be lying to say he wasn't the slightest bit relieved. ]

Good. Did he actually believe your story, do you think?

[ He's not inviting Hickey to sit just yet, but there is certainly space to do so. ]

[spotsalone]

[ Hickey nods, not moving from the doorway. ]

He did. He knows of the palace in the simplest of terms, and he knows I cannot die. He may return to you with questions, though it's unlikely. I wouldn't tell him why you've chosen to accompany me here.

[ There's a slight defensive edge to his tone. They've managed to avoid each other since last night, and Hickey isn't quite sure where they stand yet. Angelo seems calmer today, but it would not be a surprise if he's waiting for an opportunity to rekindle his anger. In the interest of avoiding that, Hickey sticks to straightforward facts. ]

Should he come calling, tell him whatever you like outside of revealing the significance of my cigarettes—though I suggest avoiding outright lies. Our stories will be difficult enough to keep straight if he's going to bounce between us.

[ He pauses, and then adds: ]

And do not tell him my name.