it irks him, that he doesnât have bellâs full attention. though itâs quite the display, to watch him so entranced with his workâthat kane can always appreciate; drive, focus. he hovers around, far enough to not be a nuisance (as if kane ever cared about not being one), but close enough to watch. the paper. the ink. the hands. and though it irks himâperhaps itâs better off, for victor to not even spare him a look, with the face kane makes when the metaphors start. call kane uncultured, an idiotâhe couldnât care less about fucking byron or homer; victorâs metaphors could just as well be falling on deaf ears. he still listens, at least pretends toâpretends like thereâs a point to it, that it makes predicting the future any easier. goddamn writers, refusing to tell things as they are.Â
but he plays along, tries to speak his language. âwhatâs your pick, then?â kane asks; his crossed arms unfold, arms fall to his sides; two fingers tap the edge of the table. he makes it look as if he feels out of place, as if he doesnât know what to do with himself, where and how to place his body. there isnât a valid reason for this kind of approach, nothing but wanting to play around, see if he can make people see him as something else. heâs done it his entire life, but never like this. never to lessen his presence, his urge; kane always tries to overpower the room, even if he had to crawl into it.Â
âi for one always felt like the captain was just waiting for this to happen.â he chooses to call dowling the captain, even though the man doesnât carry the title anymoreâit isnât because he means it, heâs more interested in whether bell would do the same. and the curiosity is nothing more than a part of a game. there isnât the need for kane to judge sympathies but it fills the time. itâs fun.Â
âdo you trust estrada? i never did, i think.â that much is true, for once, kane doesnât lie. âif thereâs a tragic hero in this story, it surely must be him.â
âi hardly know the man.â victor says absently, but for the first time since kane arrived, began speaking and shifting his body as if the skin stretched across his bones didnât quite fit him correctly, the movement of his hand across the page hesitates. the statement is only a half truth, isnât it? he may not know the tortured and sisyphean captain of this particular vessel on a deep and profound level, but he knows the kind of man it takes to obtain the title--heâs pressed himself into the walls of their parlor rooms until he became invisible, heâs sat at the opposite ends of their tables, after everyone has cleared the room, and written their rough, salt-stained language until his hands were blistered, until it became unclear precisely what was blood and what was ink. heâs made heroes out of deckhands that had nothing more than half remembered syllables for names, battles where none existed--and never once had any single one of them ever thought to look him in the eye, to shake his hand for the work. never once had any of them stopped and said, can anyone see that ghost, that haunting of a man, that lingers near the doorway, the way that pen and paper move without body?Â
âhowever, if heâs anything like the others iâve met and written for--â victor blinks, clears his throat. his fingers clench around the pen again, ready to resume their cutting, their gutting of the manuscript, but he finds that he cannot focus on the words. kaneâs fingers tap too closely, and each shift of his body as he takes a step closer to where victor sits feels too practiced, moves in a game victor has never agreed to play. still, he does not look up--he does not meet the manâs eyes. âthen heâs probably just enough of a bastard and an egotist that heâs not going to take betrayal laying down.âÂ
he flips the page and begins reading again, begins slashing through excess language with a swift throughline--but kane continues. i for one always felt like the captain was just waiting for this to happen, he says casually, as though the man had embarked on this voyage with a sense of finality, for reasons impossible to articulate--as if sisyphus had cheated death the second time and reconciled himself to the ache in his shoulders for the rest of eternity. its a truly terrible narrative--one where the hero makes his grand, calculated, and courageous move because heâs just noticed that the gold buttons and tassels on his uniform jacket are starting to lack lustre, and the villain is a weak-willed man who could no longer keep his feet in the face of death and fucking horrific incident after fucking horrific incident.Â
âall of those admiralty bastards are the same,â he says, as he exhales slowly and finally sets the pen down carefully, as he looks up from the page and meets those all-too cunning eyes, that glint with amusement at having won--something, victor isnât precisely sure what the man means to claim as his prize. âso lets not go using the h-word and marcus estrada in the same sentence. they donât care how many people die, as long as they get what they set out for, and as long as they walk away a medal that some poor fuckâs wife will take off of them at the end of the night. there was no grand romantic righting of wrongs in it.âÂ
he drags a hand through his hair, and shrugs his shoulders. âi donât trust him, or dowling for that matter. trust is a fallacy--we think we trust people because we want to believe the darkness weâve been allowed to see is as bad as it gets, but it never is. thereâs always something darker, and it always comes out, leaving you wondering why you bothered at all. theyâll do what they want, regardless of my trust.âÂ