Chapter 2: Spare Parts

Arkadia

It was a terrible life.

Or, at least, it had been.

Arkadia was born- elsewhere. She didn't know what island, or even if she might be an Offworlder. Anything was possible, she supposed. Something to occupy her thoughts on grim and rainy nights.

Regardless, "Arkadia" had been born here. Among trash. Among the abandoned and the lost. The isle known even on maps as Woebegone, and as less civil names among those who had to live there.

She, like so many other of the natives, had washed up on shore one day. A babe, adrift on a few planks of wood. Her survival was a miracle, they told her.

She didn't feel miraculous.

Woebegone was, by strange confluence of currents, the place where everything thrown in the vast oceans of Creu-c'tal eventually washed ashore. If it floated in the ocean long enough, it would end up here. Thus, it was an island of debris, of miscellany- of trash.

The island had been up for at least two centuries, when she arrived as a baby. The fact that it hadn't sunk yet implied that an Anchor must be active somewhere on the island. But, on the other hand, who would waste the Magitectural effort on this pile of refuse? Perhaps, some speculated, one was lodged amidst the junk, a hidden relic of immense power keeping their collective purgatory functioning.

Regardless, Woebegone did not sink throughout Arkadia's childhood. She was not so lucky.

She sat atop her shack, watching the sun set into the sea. The light played wildly off of the scrap metal that covered the island, briefly making it look as though the world were ablaze. The sun briefly seemed to form a road on the ocean- a road to freedom. She wanted oh so desperately to take that road. But, for the moment, she sat and waited, watching the light refract through a small mobile of different colored glasses she had assembled. She caught a glimpse of herself in a panel of blue glass.

Wiry, dirty, tired-looking. Arkadia Motley looked far older than her seventeen years. Tools and pouches were slung on various bandoleer belts across her body, and a set of makeshift goggles sat atop her rust-red hair (hacked short, with a knife. Kept getting in the way.) Two short hatchets hung pointedly at her waist, displayed as visibly as she could make them. She looked at the mobile, frowned. A quick adjustment there, a tug here and- yes, that should do it. The assembly started rotating gently in the evening breeze.

Assembling things from her surroundings- making trash into treasure- was a vital skill on Woebegone. Not just for her, either, though Arkadia was among the absolute best at it. No, it was necessary for the survival of the people of the island generally. Nothing grew here, or nothing that anyone would want to eat anyway. Centuries of waste being washed ashore (and dumped, in some cases) had poisoned the soil beyond repair. Magical runoff from various discarding items of power and ship components made eating any local flora a dicey proposition indeed, if you liked your organs in their current configuration. The scorching heat this far south was another factor, as was the very limited local supply of water. In short, without trading to the outside, they would all be dead inside a year.

And so, any skills that created tradable value were critical. Recycling trash, restoring salvageable items, or simply selling off the most valuable components all brought in priceless food and items from the outside world. Sometimes art would sell to the traders, and sometimes more creative pitches would sway the merchants. But that lifeline kept them all alive. Kept her alive.

The sun set. She stood, stretching her cramped limbs. That was quite enough sitting around for one day.

She quietly began to scale out of her village. The rough wall of relatively stable scrap that surrounded it was jagged with rust and intentionally placed hazards. Broken glass, chunks of metal, a stray bear-trap, even at least one gunpowder explosive she knew of. Still, she also knew her people's ways around these traps- she had placed many of them, after all.

The merchants never took anyone with them. The Federals never took anyone with them. Even rogue sailors knew better than to take anyone with them. Who would adopt a feral dog from Woebegone? Everyone knew the type of people that lived there. The type of- She shook her head. This wasn't helpful.

There! The loose panel she had left for nights such as this. She cautiously lifted the hidden latch, disguised as a rusty bracket in the wall. Almost free. Almost-

"Arkadia?" A voice behind her feigned surprise. "Is that you?"

She gritted her teeth and mentally resisted the urge to run. She turned around slowly, feigning nonchalance. "Yes, it's me Vel. Why?"

A middle-aged man walked up cautiously, carrying an impromptu torch (magical light bound to a stick, reinforced with a hand-guard in event of unexpected combat. She was proud of that one). Well, middle-aged by Woebegone standards. No more than thirty, she guessed. This place took its bloody toll. "What on Creu-c'tal are you doing?" He sounded more tired than angry.

Arkadia looked him pointedly in the eyes. "I don't see how that's any concern of yours. I'm not a child anymore."

"Arkadia... Look, I'm not trying to tell you what to do. But it's past sundown, and the Scrap Wastes are dangerous even when you can see where you're going. You're going to go wandering around in the dark, alone."

"I'm not wandering. I know exactly where I'm going."

"And what if raiders from another clan get you? You know the Toothy Maws have it out for us after last month."

She couldn't help grinning at that. She had had led a team that rigged up a smell-intensifying rune, a dead rat, and a wind emitter to create a blast of putrid air. She'd then put that fetid wind tunnel directly in front of the Maws' dock. No longboats rom the trading convoy stopped there; several more stopped at the Wrought Reclaimers. They were still eating fresh fruit because of it. "Oh, they'll get over it once the next trade fleet arrives tomorrow. I'm sticking well away from their turf anyway."

"Well, I'll be up on watch for a few hours anyway. Shout if you need anything, okay?"

"Sure, Vel." She rolled her eyes. "Just make sure nobody gets any ideas about going through my stash."

"I think they've all learned better by now," he chuckled, "But will do. Scavenge safe, Arkadia."

"Scavenge safe, Vel." She stepped out through the loose panel, and was out.

Out in the wastes of the island-sized junkyard. Twenty square miles of trash and survivors in various states of psychosis. If it hadn't been all she'd ever known, she supposed she would be intimidated. As it was, it was comforting, in a dark way. She flipped the goggles down onto her face. Nothing happened. She cursed under her breath, and pulled a small pouch out of her bandoleer. She reached a finger in gingerly, touching the ground glass within. With the other hand, she touched the goggles. A few quick words under the breath and suddenly the dark mounds of rubbish were lit like it was noon. She felt the pile of glass in the bag shrink noticeably under her touch. The goggles were scavenged, of course- two different sets of Magitectural night-vision goggles, stripped from the wreck of a military vessel. She'd bound two working lenses together, but the charm was badly damaged. They held charge terribly, or at least so she assumed; it would be absurd for the Federal navy to be recharging them every few hours.

With vision restored, she was able to begin trekking through the hills and valleys, using iconic debris as guideposts. Left past the shattered mast, right when you reach the coffin of Benjamin Thomas, beloved fried (chuckle at the misspelling, every time), stop in front of the nondescript pile of rotted-out barrels and furniture. She looked around cautiously for any sign of movement. Nothing caught her enhanced eyes. It was nice of Vel to agree to watch her things- a niceness that came in no small part from his surrogate fatherhood of her, she suspected. Still, from a young age she had learned better than to simply trust her things to kindness, or even to the people of her clan. While a certain broad loyalty of necessity predominated, it was hardly unknown for people of the village to "borrow" objects of value they found interesting, useful, or profitable. She knelt down in front of an especially foul-looking rotten table, and crawled through it.

The illusion shimmered as she went through. She closed her eyes against the effect; she always found it faintly nauseating. When she reopened, she was in her own little private tunnel. It had started as little more than a shallow natural cave, formed by fortuitous settling of planks of wood. With years of secret effort, plank by plank, cautious midnight excavation by cautious midnight excavation, it had become something more: a sanctuary. All of her true valuables were in here, and had been since five or six months ago, since she'd finished installing the illusion and- she reached up quickly, pressing a rune on the ceiling- other security measures. She took in her little space: a small workshop, a set of weapons, a precious, precious bookshelf with six books on it. And, in the center, the labor of months of effort.

Problem: How to leave Woebegone. Solution 1: Leave on a trade ship. Result: No luck. The island had too much of a reputation. OIC traders never took vessels in directly (for this and for other reasons soon to be seen), and only sent in longships to trade. These ships never took people with them. If a crew of locals commandeered a boat, it would be destroyed by cannon-fire well before it could reach the main vessel. The only other visitors she knew of were Federal navy vessels, and if the navy were here, it wasn't to pick up stray locals.

Solution 2: build a vessel. Result: Impossible or at least nearly so given local conditions. Any and all wood found on the island was rotted through with time on the ocean and terrible local conditions. While a ship wrought of metal was theoretically possible, even if she could assemble one, she would need a team of workers to do so. This was not to mention the local sailing issues. The island of Woebegone was mostly surrounded by a jagged reef of debris, with a few shallow escape channels. The lagoon formed by this debris was home to the Alkali Shark, a ferocious local predator with an especial taste for human flesh. Even if you could get out, any boat small enough to make it off the island was too small to be ocean-worthy in event of a storm. It was at least two weeks by sea to any nearby island, by her rough estimates. Even if there were perfect conditions, she would have no sailing experience, and insufficient navigational tools to hit the fairly tiny target of an island before running out of food. Even if- And so on. Not an option.

Solution 3: Where the sane options fail...

A rough harness hung from a battle-scarred mannequin. The harness was lashed to a set of metal wings. The wings were covered in runes. She sighed. Even having done the math twenty times over, this still seemed a bad idea. She checked the straps, checked the symbols, checked the joints. All was in order. As it had been the last three nights. She gritted her teeth. This was a bad idea... and yet, the thought of another day on this rock. Arkadia began gathering her things. The irreplaceable books went in first. She knew the titles by heart- knew the books by heart, in general. A cookbook, a badly damaged romance novel, a self-help book, and a guide to herbs had at least taught her how to read. An Atlas of Creu-c'tal, (current to YD 650) had informed her dreams. And, of course, Introduction to Magitectural Principals by Arch-Magitect Siobhan would get her out.

She began quietly reciting the tenents of Magitecture as she strapped the contraption to her back. Magic is another form of science. Magic can be bound to objects. Magic, like fire, requires fuel. Magic, like physics and chemistry, has rules that can be determined through experimental principles. Binding magic to items, and understanding the result is Magitecture.

"Through time and application, all questions of the arcane can be understood and explained." she whispered. A mantra, of sorts, or so the self-help book would call it. It brought her peace. It had brought her safety and success. And it would bring her out. "Siobhan watch over me" she added, impulsively.

She crawled back outside. The wings sat heavy on her back. If she was right, they would rocket her well past ship speeds, and well further than she would need. Months of charging spare batteries with fuel (the spell she had devised worked best off of the flammable gases she had created by fermenting various organic materials) gave Arkadia a certain amount of breathing room. She had her atlas, and since her target island of El Fragua was anchored, it should still be in existence, even given a dated atlas. She set off through the Scrap Wastes once more. The largest mountain of trash in the area awaited- she had scoped it out already. It had a clear view of the sea to the north, a flat top, and enough height that she wasn't worried about sudden, unfortunate landings.

A ten-minute hike later (and another charging of those damn goggles later), and she was atop the hill. She was about a hundred feet above sea level, she reckoned, and had a fairly good view of the local portion of Woebegone. There, to the northwest, lay the walled village of the Reclaimer clan. She felt momentarily guilty about leaving them behind- but, then, the first rule of living in a place like this was to look out for oneself. She hadn't been born here, and she would not die here. Besides, she rationalized, once she'd made it in the world, she could always come back for them. Hell, she'd send a convoy and rescue everyone on the island. She looked north, to the sea. Was she actually doing this?

"Siobhan."

With the whisper of the command word, the wings shuddered into life. Metal plates clanked and shook, as the wings extended to a mighty twelve-foot wingspan. Hot air began blasting from the inward-facing panels, nearly knocking her on her back. If this worked right, it would function more like a glider than a true set of wings, allowing her to simply coast long distances. This was good- even at flight speeds, it would be a few days- she would presumably need to sleep.

This was a terrible idea.

But, then, she was burning fuel.

She leapt.

The running jump that took her off the edge started sloppy. She didn't lean far enough forward, instinctively trying not to fall on her face. The pressure from the wings thus instead flipped her into a backwards somersault, before rocketing her downwards at a speed greater than gravity's meagre rainbow arc. Arkadia snapped to attention as the distant valley floor became the close, jagged, valley floor. Quickly, she tucked her legs in and rolled back into optimal position, grunting as the acceleration on her chest suddenly reversed. She could make out individual nails on the ground... and then, the tugging at her shoulders did its work, and she swooped upwards.

She couldn't help a whoop of glee as she shot like a musketball into the night sky. It was only a quarter-mile or so till the sea. The feeling of flight was intoxicating. The wind in her short hair, the breeze on her cheek. And the smell! She had only ever known the luxurious aromas of Woebegone; the fresh air at this altitude was something remarkable. She breathed deeply, taking in the fresh, cold night air.

Directly north, she thought she could see the dark silhouette of... something. Yes, there it was- a ship. She frowned thoughtfully. If this was the OIC trading convoy that was expected for the month, it wasn't necessarily the best idea to fly past them. They might fire on sight- and her ramshackle gliding apparatus had nothing that could withstand cannon-fire built in. No trouble, she thought, just head east and cut back north later. And so, she did, swooping back over the bulk of the island. The view from above was somewhat odd, she thought. What seemed jagged and insurmountable from below barely registered above. Her normal system of landmarks for navigating the Wastes didn't work, here.

That, as it turned out, was something of an issue.

Below, a gunshot rang out. Another. She flinched instinctively, but felt no pain. Scanning the ground below her, she realized in horror where she was. She was at the westernmost tip of the island already- the wings were faster than she realized. She was right over the camp of the Toothy Maws.

Another volley. She screamed as a shot entered her leg, a burning pain worse than anything she'd felt before. Something was cold about the sensation, something odd- but she could focus on that, as her more immediate concern was her plummeting altitude. The ground, such a distant concern, suddenly asserted itself in her mind once more. She looked to the left. Nothing. Look to the right. Aha, that was the issue. The wing was well-riddled with holes. She plummeted downwards, the wind whistling shrilly through the jagged rents in her way out. I should probably be more upset about that, she rationalized, but decided instead to worry about not smearing into the ground. The lagoon was right there- she heard another few bullets whip past- if she could just stay aloft long enough. Fifty feet. Twenty. Ten.

She almost made it. Or, rather, almost her entire body cleared the shore. A sickening wet crunch from below, and suddenly her ankle hurt even more than her gunshot wound. She skipped twice, and then into the water she went. Her body did not respond well to the sudden shock of cold water on wounds and flesh. A chill swept over her.

Arkady took stock quickly. Broken ankle; maybe "shattered" was the better term. Or "Obliterated". Bullet in the leg- and, judging by the numbness making its way up her body, possibly poisoned somehow. The shore was thirty feet away, at least Broken glider; maybe "perforated" was the better term. Or- she shook her head. Mind was wandering. Needed to focus. That must be the blood loss.

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The blood loss. Ah. She looked out to the rust-red waters of the lagoon. They were poisonous to drink, of course; years of dumped potions and magical debris had made quite sure of that. No, the concern was rather the wildlife. She watched with grim certitude as a sickly rust-red fin breached the surface of the water. Alkali Shark. Of course. Well, not the way she'd expected to go, but at least she'd technically gotten off the island. It was over. She closed her eyes, giving in to the numbness that had reached her torso.

Something smacked her in the back. She opened her eyes in irritation, and looked around. Was that- A rope! She grabbed on quickly, thankfully. She put little stock in the Federal faith, but she said a garbled half-remembered prayer of thanks to the Arcanes anyway. She had no idea where she was finding the strength to hold on, but so she did, pulled determinedly to the shore. Her eyes closed again. It took everything she had to stay conscious. She didn't even utter a word of protest as the ragged debris of the shore cut into her back. She coughed and gasped, spewing the filthy lagoon water from her lungs.

"Thank you. Thank you so much. Whoever you are, I owe you my life." she murmured.

Coarse laughter greeted this. She opened her eyes wearily. Ah. Of course.

"Well, if you insist," one of the Maws responded, "We might just take you up on that.

She went for a hatchet, but watched it immediately get kicked away. There were five of them- no six. The numbness had crept to her neck. Arkadia looked back at the water. "Should have taken the shark." she said dazedly. And then, the darkness took over.

…

The Toothy Maws, as a rule, lacked their natural teeth. Hence the name.

Rather, they supplemented- and indeed, replaced- these organic components with whatever scrap material suited them best. Bits of glass, bits of metal. Nails, blades, sharpened shells. The most adventurous among them lacked jaws entirely, having evolved beyond such primative needs. The most conservative, or youngest, among them merely sharpened their teeth, waiting for the chance to "earn their teeth".

Arkadia had absolutely no idea how they were still alive.

And yet, alive they obviously were. Arkadia instead had to ask the more immediate questions. Such as: what did they use those jaws for?

She was bound, of course. Hand behind her back, ankles together, and shackled to the bottom of a cage for good measure. At every point she'd tried to ask questions, she had been hit with a musket-butt. At several points on the short trip back, once she had regained consciousness, she had been hit for seemingly no reason at all. Now, here she was; no weapons, no wings, no bag. Her wounds had been roughly treated- a bandage on the leg, a brace on the ankle. They still hurt, of course, but she wasn't bleeding to death. From her vantage point, she had an unfortunately wide view of the Maws' village. She suspected she knew the answer to her question. She suspected she knew why she was still alive.

The Maws hadn't had much to eat, since the trading fleet had steered away from them on the last voyage. She hadn't thought much of it at the time. Everyone got skipped from time to time; the Rust Claws had once gone six months without seeing another boat, after they attacked one OIC longship. You had to trade with the other tribes, scavenge more, or try your luck at fishing. It happened. The Maws, it seemed, had turned to a more creative solution to the food shortage.

The stench of blood and death filled the camp. Several of the most inhuman looking Maws sat chewing merrily on- she looked away- by the fire. It was too much. But, of course, it was not totally unexpected. There were whispers about how much the tribe loved taking prisoners, on event of inter-clan conflict.

An especially hulking figure stood up, throwing the- the tibia into the fire. His bottom jaw looked to have been replaced by half of a bear trap or something similar. Angry red veins bulged across his bald head, and his right arm was pierced repeatedly with random spikes of metal. He strode over to the cage, absent-mindedly picking a lump of gristly out of his macabre teeth. "Heh. Arkadia Motley. Little girls shouldn't play with magic. They can get hurt, you know." He spat. It was a strange sight, given his dental configuration. "We missed supplies because of you. Weapons. Clothing. Food. And you ate just fine."

"When we miss convoys, we don't eat people." She growled. She wouldn't be intimidated by this half-faced monster. Or, at least, she wouldn't let her fear show.

"Hnh. Maybe. But we don't eat people either, when we have food." the man looked her over hungrily. "Don't worry, I know how you can pay us back."

She swallowed involuntarily. "Who are you?" she demanded, cursing mental at the quiver that snuck into her tone.

"Grist. Chief of the Toothy Maws, for now."

"Chief? What happened to-"

"He's gone now." Grist tried to grin. She thought so, anyway- reading emotion on that scarred and mutilated face was difficult. "Too soft. Should have cooked him longer."

Arkadia thought carefully about her options. They weren't many. "I could help you, you know. I'm more valuable alive than dead."

Grist laughed harshly. Something grated in his throat as he did. Was that the secret? Did the body modification go deeper than she knew? "You aren't the only one on this rock that can put spells on metal."

"I can- I can conceal the camp for you. From Ochre Island Company traders. The scent, I mean." Cold sweat was running down her brow, despite the scorching rays of the early morning sun. "Even the visuals, if you give me enough time."

"Good try." Grist grunted. "But no. Can you see the dock from here?"

She could not. The buildings were laid out such that the dock, while only thirty feet or so from the fire, was totally obscured.

The metal-jawed menace continued: "Nah, didn't think so. Can't smell from there either. Another meal already set up those wards for us. Turns out, it weren't too hard. Bought him a few days, for what it was worth." Grist gestured broadly at the camp, at the Maws within. "Besides, you think those fancy OIC bastards don't know? That they're really so unobservant. Nah, meat, they know. How could they not? No, they just can't stand being reminded. That's why they fell for your little trick." His jaws snapped shut, emphasizing the last word. "They've seen enough blood and bought enough scrap to know better. Anything else?"

Arkadia looked around the camp. There were only a dozen or so of the Maws present, but the merry murderers presented a horrifying sight. She caught two more cages like her own, full to bursting with piled bones. Some, she thought, might be animal. "I could teach you magic. More than you know. Enough to build things like those wings."

"A better offer, meat. But what can you really know? We've read your books, your precious cargo. The spellbook was blank. Nah, I don't think you can teach us about the wings. Know what I think? I think those are just another piece of salvage. Just like those goggles on your head, a fixed-up piece of scrap." He snorted. "One more try, meat. Make it count."

She racked her brains. There most be something. She supposed she could- well, it was worth a try anyway.

"I know what happened to the Rot Wolves" she bluffed, through gritted teeth. The tribe had disappeared fifteen years ago, massacred to a man.

Grist simply grinned back at her. "They died. The hell do I care about why?" He chuckled bitterly. "Not that you know. Like I said, you don't know more than anyone else in this graveyard. Arkadia Motley, savant Magitect of the oh-so-fucking-special Wrought Reclaimers. You're a scrap rat like the rest of us." Grist shook his head angrily. Veins bulged in his neck and temples. "You know what else? You know what else, meat?" He rattled her cage angrily. "You aren't any different to me. You think I'm a monster for my diet? For my jaw? Well, walk a mile in our life first. Try going hungry, then staying hungry. Staying hungry for months. Staying hungry on a dead ship until hope and camaraderie wither and die and only the emptiness inside remains. Try seeing some still wet-behind-the-ears kid drive the food convoy away on a lark." He grunted, reaching for his belt.

For the keys.

"Y'know what I think? Book learning's for the soft. Let's do some experiential teaching, eh?" Grist grabbed the keys. "Show you how the Toothy Maws live?" He inserted the key into the lock.

Arkadia quickly slammed her body into the front of the cage. As she hoped, the key popped loose, landing with a faint ting in the mud of the camp. Grist roared in frustration. "You bitch! I'll make it slow for that!" He gnashed his false jaw furiously. He pawed through the cage, trying to grab her. Arkadia dodged left, up to the edge of her restraints, then leaned forward and bit as hard as she could on his wrist. He thought they were so alike? Fine. She'd rip his damn arm off. She'd- he pulled back, hard, slamming her face into the cage. Before she could respond, he punched her with the other hand, sending her sprawling out on her back. Her head slammed painfully into the back of the cage. Grist laughed cruelly, and turned to the ground, looking for the key.

Before he could find it, horns from the beach. From the docks. A clattering of footsteps echoed through the camp. Oh thank the Arcanes, Arkadia thought, the traders. She didn't fancy her odds against the iron-toothed titan without her hands free. Grist locked eyes with her. "This isn't finished," he growled. "In fact, we're just getting started. I'm gonna find a nice, rusty blade, just for you." He stalked away, barking orders as he went. Maws ran about the camp, gathering whatever trade goods they could carry. It was the usual assortment from Woebegone: salvaged materials, repaired magical miscellany, and washed-up treasures. And, of course, her precious wings and books. They hadn't even bothered to patch the holes.

She listened half-heartedly to the trade discussions, catching most of what was said despite the distance. Meanwhile, Arkadia mulled her options. Without her components pouch, any kind of spell was out. Speaking of spells, what was that about her book being blank? She put it from her mind. Not the time to worry about that particular mystery. She needed a way out. The key maybe? She spent several long, fruitless minutes reaching for it. No good. Distantly, she heard the subject turn to the wings. Her wings. Think, Arkadia. What would Siobhan think of you? Key is out of reach. Magnetize it? But you need consumable iron for that, and you're in a wooden cage. She looked around. Nothing. Well, except... she braced herself. This would hurt.

She ripped the bandage off her leg, then kicked it as hard as she could into the cage wall. The crude stitches underneath burst, as expected, and began to spew forth fresh blood. Arkadia hissed in pain. But, there it was. She dipped a finger in the red river, said the words and... the key zipped into her fingers. She laughed in triumph, then swooned as what felt like a pint of blood vanished from her body. Okay, noted. Still, she twirled the key gleefully. Click.

Arkadia pushed the cage door open cautiously. No sign of any guards. They had all gone off to trade. Miss a month, and that's what happens, apparently. She rooted around the campfire, quickly coming upon her ravaged pack. Everything of value was gone, but at least her hatchets were there. She hefted them gratefully, feeling the heavy weights at the ends as if they were extensions of her arms. Alright, time to go. She set off for the edge of camp.

And then, against her better judgment, she stopped. She could still faintly hear the traders haggling, almost at a deal. A deal for wings, googles, and books.

Her wings, googles, and books.

She groaned. "This isn't worth it, 'Dia," she whispered. But, on the other hand: Losing everything. Months of work, years of study. And for what? She turned around slowly. There were only twelve of them. And they didn't know what she knew.

"Hell with it." She began jogging back to the camp, back around the edge of the building that blocked view of the docks.

There, she saw a fairly familiar sight. An OIC away party: several toughs in sailor garb, holding rifles, plus an officer in formal garb. This one was of middle age, with a bored looking face and a brace of pistols at her waist. She stood in front of a beached longboat, partially loaded with trade goods. "...Alright, I think we can throw in a third barrelful. For your "troubles". Her voice was dry, salt-stained. She'd seen the ocean more than dry land, unless Arkadia missed her guess. "Anything else?"

Here goes nothing. "Those wings aren't theirs to sell!" Arkadia declared, boldly stepping forward out of the shadows. A ripple ran through the crowd; Grist whipped around, eyes narrowing.

"Ignore her, officer. She's confused. Here, I'll take her back to her house." Grist stepped towards her across the semicircle of observers. Arkadia bit back the urge to recoil, as the OIC officer interposed a quiet hand.

"It seems to me that none of this is yours to sell. Unless, pray tell, you have property writs for the salvage from this island?" She looked around with hawkish eyes. The officer was at least six inches shorter than the squattest of these metal-mouthed brutes, yet seemed not only unbowed but positively in control of the crowd. None spoke up in response. "As I thought. Who are you, then, to determine what may or may not justly be sold?"

Arkadia almost withered under the scorn. But she had come this far. She would not die here. "I am Arkadia Motley, of the Wrought Reclaimers. And that set of wings is not salvage, but built by these hands." She gestured at herself dramatically. "Whatever payment they were asking of you belongs to me."

Grist snorted. "Lies from a deranged woman. We aren't even in the Reclaimer camp, mea- Arkadia. And, as every man here will testify, this was honestly obtained salvage." There was a loud hoot and holler of affirmation at this. "As you see. Now," he said, turned back to the officer. "Where were we?"

"Wait! Wait, help!" She panicked. The way behind her had closed when she wasn't looking. "You don't understand! I'm a prisoner here! They attacked me and stole those! Look! Look at my leg!"

"Poor lass did it to herself." Grist said offhandedly to the officer. She raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. The sailors behind her shifted uncomfortably, hands firmly on their guns.

Two muscled Maws closed in on her, wrapping her in a tight hold. They began dragging her away, kicking and screaming in the mud. The officer seemed unperturbed by the mud; if anything, she looked relieved to have the distraction removed. Arkadia wracked her brain for an option. "They eat people! The Maws eat people!" Grist didn't dignify that with a response. She snapped angrily at the man and woman dragging her away, but they just laughed in response. She was too weak from poison and blood loss to pry them off, to go for a hatchet. One of them produced a filthy rag.

She really only had one card left to play. "It isn't his damn it He doesn't know the comman-" Arkadia's mouth was suddenly full of the taste of blood-soaked fabric. The Maws had finally wrestled her around to the side of the building. She could barely see the docks anymore. Suddenly, her legs buckled under her, as one guard took the opportunity to sneak a cruel kick in the ribs. "Heh. Serves you right, trade-stealer. I'm looking forward to dinner tonight." The woman was tall and broad-shouldered, with a jaw that split in two on the bottom, like mandibles. Her tongue wagged eerily in the space between, giving her a strange pronunciation.

On the dock, the officer looked Grist dead in the eyes. "It's yours then? All of it?"

"Like I said. Are we done here?"

"One more question and we'll be on our way. How do you activate it?"

Grist grumbled. "As I said, it's a simple case of, uh," he consulted something written on his arm in charcoal, "att-une-ment. Spend a night with it, I'm told. You'll learn how to use it afterward."

"Ah, of course. How... standard. And you're sure there isn't anything else you'd like to add? No traps? No charge?" she took off her steel-rimmed glassed, and cleaned them absentmindedly. Arkadia swore she heard an exhausted sigh "No... command word?"

"Not that I know of. It worked when I att-uned to it." Grist's temper was clearly starting to get the better of him. "Come on, look at the thing, it's well-crafted. Buy it or leave."

She nodded, thoughtfully. "All right, load it up," she said to the sailors. "As for you, lay out the good wine." The sailors nodded, and began hauling a barrel out of the longboat. "Might I have a quick word with that insane girl of yours? I'll throw in this extra barrel, in addition to what was promised. That is, unless she's right about you being cannibals?" The officer laughed merily, clapping a hand on Grist's shoulder. Arkadia wasn't entirely sure it was a joke. Regardless, Grist looked over his ravenous tribe, and nodded slowly.

"Just the one, alright? She's, uh... she needs to go lay down. Not well, that one." Grist winked at Arkadia behind the officer's back. "But we have a cure ready to go."

The officer walked up. At close range, Arkadia could not help but admire how well-put-together she was; the orange coat was magnificently buttoned, the pearl-handled pistols polished to a shine. A faint smell came off of her, not of the trash or of body odor, but something light and sweet. Arkadia knew vaguely of the concept of flowers, though none grew on Woebegone. Perhaps they were related. Regardless, the officer leaned down to Arkadia's slumped form and removed the gag with a look of disgust, holding the bloody rag gingerly. Arkadia whispered the only thing she could. The officer nodded, replaced the gag, and stood to full height. The barrel was in the center of the Maws now, ready to be struck open. One of the sailors was busy fetching a hammer and tap. The officer whistled absentmindly as she returned to the boat. "As I thought. I apologize for questioning you, Grist. I do hope you enjoy your feast tonight."

Grist grinned toothily (could he grin any other way?) at her. "We certainly will." The other sailor had returned to the boat to fetch the food barrels.

The officer smiled broadly. Then, languidly, she declared "Siobhan!", and all hell broke loose.

One sailor immediately fired on the barrel, which exploded, sending five of the Maws instantly to the ground and at least three to the grave. The other shot one of Arkadia's guards. The officer pulled her brace of pistols, hitting the second guard in the chest and putting a ball in Grist's leg. He growled, but fell. Behind everyone, the wings sputtered to life, blasting hot air across the beach. Sand kicked up, obscuring the three OIC figures on the shore. "Hurry!" the officer shouted, "We're leaving."

Arkadia didn't need any further prodding. She clambered to her feet shakily, freeing a hatchet from her belt. More gunshots rang out. The Maws were regrouping, going for their own guns and blades. She watched as Grist stood back up with a growl of rage, lunging forward at the OIC officer. The officer ducked aside, but couldn't retaliate- she was still reloading her pistols. The sailor behind her was not so lucky. Arkadia nearly wretched as she watched the steel-clad jaws of Grist latch onto the exposed throat he was presented with and simply rip. Flesh and sinew tore like wet paper under those chrome blades, and the sailor's final scream almost immediately subsided into wet gurgling. The officer shot another Maw, then cursed and threw down her pistol. She pulled instead a saber from inside her greatcoat. "Arkadia!" She snapped. "Now or never."

Both remaining OIC members had climbed back into the boat. The sailor fired one last shot, going wide of his mark in panic, then made for the oars. The officer brought her sabre up just in time to parry a bite from Grist's viscera-soaked jaws. There was no light behind his eyes; he had totally lost himself to the battle. As had the few remaining Maws, Arkadia noticed, dodging past an unsteady grab. They were howling inhumanly, mutilated mouths creating horrific vocalizations. "The food! Come back with our foooooood!" One Maw screamed in frustration. His jaw hung loose, held unsteadily in place by what looked like a simple latch. The crowd got angrier and angrier. Not content to attack the difficult target of the sailors- now fifteen feet out into the lagoon- they began rending each other, chomping, shooting, and stabbing. They're so hungry, she realized hungrier than I knew.

This is my fault. The thought came unbidden. But it was hard to dispute.

But for now, she needed to be gone. She vaulted the last Maw between her and the water, (don't think about sharks, she reminded herself) and dove into the lagoon.

Ten strong strokes through the foul-tasting water and she was at the longboat. It rocked back and forth furiously under the struggle. Arkadia threw an arm over the gunwale, then the other. She saw with shock that the other sailor was dead, his head bashed in until it looked like a shattered gourd. Amidst the gore and brain matter, the officer and Grist still wrestled, but the officer was clearly losing now. Her sabre was gone, as was a portion of greatcoat and the shoulder underneath. Grist was on top of her, laughing coarsely as his jaws snapped ever closer to her face.

"Hey, asshole." Arkadia slurred. Blood loss was getting to her. Not great. Grist turned, the feral jaws splaying even further open. "This might be more your taste." She planted a hatchet as hard as she could into the base of his neck. At the hinge, where metal jaw met mortal flesh. He screamed, recoiling backwards clutching his face. She saw with some satisfaction that the connection to the lower jaw had been at least partially severed; it hung loose and awkward, pouring blood between his meaty fingers. She raised her other hatchet, then paused. Could she really- she had never taken a life before. Not deliberately. As much of a monster as he was...

"Kill... you..." Grist hissed between gasps. A gunshot rang out. He looked down in disbelief at the hole in his stomach. "How?" he managed, before toppling over backwards out of the boat. He flailed at first, splashing and wailing incoherently. That didn't last long, however. Arkadia's brief sense of triumph evaporated as she saw the oncoming triangle of a fin in the water. That iconic Woebegone rust-red fin.

"We need to go." Arkadia turned to the officer. She still held the pistol outstretched, still seemed entranced by the smoke coming from the barrel. "Come on, I don't know how to operate this!" She shook the officer firmly.

A look of comprehension returned to her face. "Yes. Of course. Grab those oars, we must get back to the ship." And, with no more words exchanged, they began to row. Row away from Woebegone, away from the screaming, blood-drenched shores and thrashing waters.

But what were they rowing towards?