Dove knew she shouldn’t have, but she yelped with joy almost every step through the boardwalk. She strolled down the deserted port, entirely blanketed in a thick mildewy fog. She really felt like an explorer, a discoverer. A little more of the world opened up to her as she went, a few feet at a time. Old rope, bits of guts or a spilling of some floral-coloured spice. And so many dropped or hastily cracked-open crates strewing the path towards the ocean, leading her to the ship she was going to loot.

After the havoc she had caused yesterday, Dove didn’t think she would’ve been able to come back and check out this place and all its wonderful sights -and well, the general vista was blocked off by the ever-present fog, but all the small things added up, in her mind creating a true experience of dock life. She only wished she could’ve shared it.

But none of the orphans would come with her. Even if it meant less food to carry back. Dove should’ve known that; the ship was abandoned for a reason.

The fog parted, revealing a drop. The loading plank jutted out from the water at the edge of the misty periphery. The ship just beyond. Stretching her claves, Dove took out her gunpowder bag and gently ‘salted’ the wood between her feet. “Such superstitious folk around here,” she said, smiling to herself. And with a snap, she launched herself forward.

Dove laughed as she crashed onto the abandoned merchant ship. Still getting used to landing, she careened into the side, hard enough to feel the ship rock afterwards. Flipping up -and still laughing with ridiculous, childlike joy- Dove tossed her gunpowder sack in the air. Still heavy. The gunpowder within seemed to regenerate over time, but as of today, the process seemed to be faster. And since the cargo hold wasn’t nearby, Dove launched herself again, explosively hopping onto the other side.

When she landed this time, she could feel items move below her. Jackpot, she thought, on the floor after another sloppy landing. She didn’t get up; what was the rush? Instead, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the freedom of the sea, the lulling motion of the boat, soaked in an appreciation of what it was like to do everything on her own. Anything she wanted to do, she could. Anywhere she needed to go, she could go herself. Slowly the rocking ceased, as did any rattling, and the air and fog hung motionless, silent and perfectly neutral in their lack of humidity or warmth. As the sensations of this world stilled, Dove’s mind drifted away.

Trapped. Tied down in a wheelchair as the airplane bucked through turbulence, Dove felt more trapped than she had ever been. Alone in the front row, she faced only the cockpit door. The air hostesses were tied up with some procedure, at the back yelling at a frisky couple stuck in the bathroom to “stay put” and to “hold on for goodness sake!”

It seemed like even in this situation, at the mercy of the elements thousands of feet in the air, every other passenger had some means of taking back control. She could hear and feel it. They screamed, trembled, kicked their feet into the ground like they could push away the malicious winds outside. If she could turn back, Dove was sure she could see it too, their sweating faces, long-drawn and horrified like too-real versions of the Scream, a mess of food on the thin grey carpet, maybe some luggage flying into someone’s teeth -to add a bit of colour to the scene.

But she couldn’t turn around, as much as she wanted to. She couldn’t move, rock her chair or make a noise like slapping her armrest. And from the back, nobody could see that Dove was struggling to breathe.

It all ended, eventually. The plane finally landed in Amsterdam and emptied out. Dove sat and watched them pass by in single file, sharing ‘war stories’ of the trip until she was the last one sitting. Her carer nowhere to be seen. The hostesses made an attempt, but it was clear they were uncomfortable even being near her.

All this time, Dove stared at cockpit door. The only thing keeping her from folding in to her panic attack was the firm wish that she could somehow, one day, find her own cockpit. That she could be the one to take control of situations such as these, where ‘normal’ people could only cry and throw up. When the cockpit door opened to let out the pilot, she immediately saw Dove. She graciously helped her drink water and dabbed a warm cloth at her forehead, grumbling about how unacceptable the behaviour of Dove’s carer was. All Dove wanted was to say thank you, but she could only smile. It seemed like the pilot understood. This only enforced Dove’s fantasy.

She personally wheeled her into the airport and picked out her luggage from the depo. There, Dove’s carer reappeared, and when pressed by the pilot, she apologized profusely. But once she got Dove back, the carer huffed as she spun her away and into the taxi-van headed to the Riot convention, saying,

“You always have to make such a big deal out of everything, huh?”

Dove never said anything back. Just her bit lip. Bit her lip and watched the airplanes fly in the distance as they headed to her make-a-wish.

Opening her eyes again to a sky of fog, Dove put a finger to her lips and frowned at the blood. The lingering, bitter taste of reality. She sat up and remembered the real purpose of this place -The Bilgewater Battle Royale- and sighed. All it meant to her was that at some point she would have to leave. More likely, that she would be hunted down. Testing the weight of her gunpowder sack, she slumped, but she had a job to do, so with heavy steps Dove descended below deck to loot every morsel of food she could carry and bring back to the orphans.

*

Emerging from the cargo hold, arms laden to the brim, Dove yelled, “Fuck!” remembering that there was no loading plank connecting the boat to port. It wasn’t a great idea, she knew, but she rustled around for her gunpowder pouch, walking up portside -but the ramp was up. And in from the fog stepped a familiar figure: The shipyard captain from before, grasping two orphans by the scalps.

Suddenly, Dove realized why this heist was so easy. She had conflated an orphan’s fear of the supernatural to those whose working conditions were affected by it. Who had no choice but to take their chances.

The captain nodded. “Inspect him.”

Him? Who is- Two cronies reared from either end of the ship and grabbed her while Dove remembered the body that she had inherited inside of this virtual arena. Dove struggled in their grasp, even managing to whip one arm free, but the thug only re-gripped her closer, his arm binding her like a seatbelt, pulling down on her collarbone. The other checked over Dove’s arms, legs and torso, then shook his head and said, “No markings, sir.”

Helpless, Dove watched all her food topple loose, a cheese wheel rolling off the side to plop into the ocean, the drops rising high enough to splatter the captain on the cheek.

He took no issue with wiping his face while keeping the orphans firm in his grasp, raising one off the ground as he did so. But he grimace as he boarded the ship, looking down at the waters. “An ill omen it is, to set sail on a waveless sea.”

Still, he moved forward, dragging the squealing orphans across, nearly dangling them over the side of the plank. “An ill omen,” he repeated, “I hope it’s worth it.”

“Release me,” Dove told him. The cronies pulled her back, but she strained her neck forward, head shaking with effort, all the blood rushing to her temples and popping spots into her vision.

The captain grinned and dropped the orphans, cracking his knuckles into a fist besides their drooped heads. They would not look at her, nor dare to even move an inch without his express command, much as Dove wanted to see their faces and tell them it would be alright. That she’d take care of it. But what about myself?

“You’ve caused me trouble thrice now,” the captain started, “A thieving little shit reaching far above your station. I should gut you where you stand as an offering to save us from this wretched fog!

“But I won’t. I understand your ambitions, as I myself have fought hard to arrive in my position. So, I’ll give you a test. One chance, got it? Since you’re a thief, and do not directly associate to me, you’re perfect for the job.”

Bent over, and amongst all the other food items it was undoubtedly difficult to tell where the gunpowder was. With a sly grin, Dove brought her fingers together in a snap.

But the captain was ready.

“When first I had witnessed your…trick, I thought for sure you were one of them,” he explained, crushing Dove’s hands in a painful pincer, “It seems I was wrong. In any case the results would’ve been the same. Everybody worth using has leverage.”

No! It can’t be over! Dove collapsed her head but the captain squeezed, grinding the bones of her fingers together to force her attention.

He coughed. “You will be my spy of the Blackfires, down at the Slaughter Docks. With your unique talent you should fit right in with those cannon-stoking bastards.”

Thankfully, the captain loosened his grip and allowed Dove a deep breath, which whistled through gritted teeth as she continued to listen.

“Your aim is to discover plans. Where, when, how many -I fear that even if the Blackfires aren’t involved with the developments plaguing the city, then they’ll surely try to capitalize on it. Report back to me if you find anything that might hinder my business in the ports and warehouses -before it happens. Remember, a single chance! Or, well—” The captain gestured to the orphans.

Dove pushed herself up, one leg at a time, wringing her fingers back to life. “And even if I do? What’s to stop you from blackmailing me from the rest of my life?”

“Nothing.

“Make a choice, boy,” said the captain, stepping aside to let Dove pass down the ramp, “Now get off my ship!”

His kick winded her, so Dove had no choice but to breathe in the depths of the cold Bilgewater sea. She flailed her limbs but kept descending, lungs burning with salt and algae. Swimming was such a long, distant memory. Had she ever swum? She couldn’t remember.

Every motion was hopeless. Fish flitted by, as if to mock her. The reflection of sunlight shrunk. Blue turned to green to black.

She stretched her hands out, to the last circle of light, just to see herself move one last time before she forgot. Then, she stopped fighting, letting them fall by her side.

She felt something there. By her side this whole time.

Dove snapped her fingers.

*

Dripping, and wincing with every step, Dove chuckled as she entered Slaughter Docks. She held on to a pronged-scepter to help her move, having dug it out of the rocks when she climbed up out the sea. A cyan gem floated up between the prongs, its blue light piercing the dense fog ahead. During the short time she’d had it, Dove noted that the gem had grown, taking up almost all the space.

“Hey, hey, now, that’s a fine walking stick ya’ got there,” called a street rat in a soot-darkened jerkin. He called over his friend, and they soon surrounded the bent over, out of breath Dove.

No better time to find out what this thing does, she thought, tipping the scepter down. Its beam of light swept over the street rats shocked faces, like they couldn’t believe how lucky they were.

“Now, young lad,” taunted the Blackfire street rats, “Why don’t you let us take that burden off your hands?”

With a quick tap, Dove smashed the gem inside the prongs of her scepter, and the light went out.

“You little -why break it?”

“Just hand it over!”

Dove stood up straight, fist and scepter radiating blue. She smashed the first one in the gut; her fist winking out as he flopped unconscious. Then, she lofted the prongs at the other, its close light lengthening the shadows of his face, enhancing the terror that leapt into him.

Still reeling from her failure with the captain, she wanted to pulverize this ganger so badly. But she held it in, and after seeing his whole ‘Blackfire’ attire, had an idea that disgusted her. She knew she shouldn’t, but…

“Give me your clothes.”