Archer Avery (arcarius) wrote in horror_story, @ 2013-06-03 20:59:00 |
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Entry tags: | archer, cycle003, incomplete, max |
Shooting the Breeze
WHO: Archer and Max
WHEN: 30 May, evening
WHERE: the lounge
WHAT: The night before they’re set to depart, the captain makes an effort at relaxation... since he probably won't have much time for that once the cruise gets underway. He visits a friend.
WARNING: Do I have to keep warning about Archer’s bad language or can we all take it as a given at this point that he’s basically incapable of cleaning it up?
His was a well-oiled machine, his ship. Didn’t matter that it belonged officially to the Marx Legacy fleet: in the mind of Captain Archer Avery, the Mare Crisium had been his the minute he set foot on the polished deck. If there’d been something the former Naval officer had to admit about his change of career, even a few years later, it was that he’d never felt that way about a piece of equipment owned by the United States government. There was an odd sense of belonging here that had been lacking in his later years of military service; Archer worked damned hard to remember that whenever he thought he’d fucked up becoming a fucking cruise ship master captain. Sometimes he thought the Yorks hadn’t given a good goddamn that he’d sat for his licensing exams after the interview with the company: he’d been an Annapolis grad and career Navy and gave off every indication that he’d treat this job with the same seriousness he’d given to his last one.
Archer was serious about the work, serious about the people he worked with. On the eve of their next voyage, he’d been moving from deck to deck, making final checks. Even though he technically didn’t have to be, Archer was in uniform: well, the dark blue one. The one he thought of as the duty uni, even though it wasn’t as practical as a real service uniform would be. Dark double-breasted blue jacket and pants, white shirt, tie tight to his throat, ridiculous tie-clip with the anchor on it in place. He’d stripped off the jacket and swabbed the portside upper deck in his shirtsleeves, to help out the hapless greenie that had gotten stuck with the job. New guy was even more intimidated by the captain stepping in to help than he’d been with the task at hand. Archer never thought it was degrading to do a job any of his crew or staff would have to undertake. He’d put the jacket back on after he’d deemed that area of the deck spotless, strolled off to see what other people were up to this evening.
His whites would be worn tomorrow afternoon, pristine and ironed, cap square on his head, everything in apple-fucking-pie order. Tonight, though, as he ducked into the lounge where he thought Max might be doing a final inventory check, he was in the blues and hadn’t even bothered with the cap. Archer ran a hand over his white hair, over the back of his neck, tired from the work of the last day in port before they shipped out, ready to be back out there on the water. He was a man who woke up early and went to bed late. That suited him, and the job, just fine. Tonight might be the last decent sleep he got in a while and he’d need it. Fucking celebrity cruises: Archer understood the business behind it but knew it made his business harder to have the dog and pony show on board, the rabid fans that went along with it.
When he came in sight of the bar, Archer reached up and loosened his tie fractionally, offered his greeting in the quiet easygoing tones that were often shelved around anyone who didn’t know him well, especially the guests. “Evening, Max.”