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A Letter from Edward Teach to Bartholomew Roberts.
Francis was moments away from changing his face on the spot, but Stacey’s expression made it clear that it was a horrendous idea. And so he refrained.
Truth be told, the woman was a genius. But even she couldn’t think of a solution to his predicament.
Or refused to.
“So I basically can’t swap faces here because it would attract attention,” Francis said. “Meaning that I’ll have to do it outside, which is as likely to attract attention.”
“Precisely,” Stacey replied flatly.
Francis was indignant. “How is that fair?”
“Your problem, not mine,” Stacey repeated. “Remember that this predicament of ours is of your own doing.”
An enthusiast of beating dead horses, I see.
“Will do,” Francis said with as much defiance as he could muster before heading towards the door.
“Try not to skip town before you repay your debt,” Stacey added from behind.
The covert threat wasn’t lost on him, and so he spoke accordingly. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good.”
Not trusting himself to be in her presence further, Francis opened the door and stepped into the claustrophobic hallway.
The curfew imposed by Havana’s government turned the vibrant rooms into a shell of their former selves. That, and the expressions on the girls’ faces, only amplified the dread.
“For how long do you think this is going to last?” Francis caught Josephine asking as he descended the stairs.
“Hard to tell,” Amani replied with a shrug. “Probably until they catch the murderer.”
The answer seemingly did little to soothe Josephine.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Beatriz interrupted. “They probably only need a solid lead before the curfew is lifted.”
“They better!” one of the twins exclaimed. “I need at least three silver a day.”
Three silver? What are you, a garrison?
The statement made sense upon further inspection, however. These women were performers at the end of the day—performers who needed to appear immaculate at all times.
Making it rather costly indeed.
And so in haste,
Francis the moron laid waste.
Gone are the days of tyranny, he exclaimed,
Not noticing the torch he had flamed.
It was an awful time for poetry, but he couldn’t deny that the absurdity helped.
Especially when it was all his fault.
True, the Inquisitors weren’t kind enough to allow for an escape, but he still could’ve tried harder.
The longer the fugitive remained entrenched in such a world, the clearer it became that inaction was undervalued currency.
Still, the time for lament was long past. He had to fix his error, and fast.
Thanks to the sale of his Demise ring, Francis had approximately 250 silver, allowing him to aid the girls.
Even if it was his fault to begin with.
“Ladies,” Francis said abruptly, garnering the attention of everyone present. “I’m sure we can find a solution.”
“Oh yeah?” Marcela said. “Do tell.”
“Taking the curfew into consideration, what are your daily expenses?”
The answers varied, but the average amounted to one silver a day—an amount more than agreeable, even if costly.
“Very well,” Francis said. “I’m willing to dedicate 150 silver from my personal funds. That should last you for two weeks.”
The fugitive’s nonchalance caught them all off guard, as they stared motionless for a long while.
“Why?” Josephine said at last. “What’s in it for you?”
“Nothing.”
Other than appeasing my conscience, that is.
“Then why?” Amani interrupted.
Admitting that the curfew was due to his actions would’ve probably made matters worse, and so he resumed hiding behind charity. “It looks like you’re having a hard time, so I wanted to help. It’s that simple.”
“It’s never that simple!” Marcela added in haste. “We learned long ago that free things are the most costly.”
“Exceptions exist, Marcela,” Francis replied. “It’s about time you learn that as well.”
Francis hoped his words would ease the tension. But it was to no avail. Even Beatriz eyed him with suspicion.
“Goodness me,” Francis snapped. “Would it make you feel better if I requested your services dozens of times?”
The question was rhetorical, but he knew many wouldn’t mind.
Bakers bake bread. Figures.
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Nevertheless, the outburst appeared to work, as looks of unease turned into admiration.
“Alright,” Beatriz said at last. “You can discuss that with me; I’ll manage the expenses accordingly.”
Francis didn’t object, as he knew Beatriz was better than most in that regard.
“Sure,” he replied, before following Beatriz to a room he hadn’t entered before.
The novelty was evident, as unlike most rooms, Beatriz had to open that one using two keys.
Must be a treasury of sorts.
Moments later, the layout confirmed Francis’ thoughts.
The room was sparse in terms of furniture, but it was to be expected, as the desk against the far wall was the highlight.
Francis half expected multiple treasure chests to line said wall, but there were none to be seen. Then again, one gold coin amounted to 60 days of hard labor.
“You can take a seat,” Beatriz said as she approached her own.
“That won’t be necessary,” Francis replied before grabbing his pouch.
“I insist, Edmond,” the clerk said firmly.
Francis had no reason to object, and so he humored the woman.
Thankfully, she stood on no ceremony, as she immediately approached the matter. “Your contribution is greatly appreciated, but I’d still prefer compensating you.”
“No need, truly,” Francis reassured her.
“No, I believe there is.”
Quite the pride you people have.
“What for?” Francis asked. “Why must my kindness be transactional?”
“Because, as the girls said,” Beatriz explained, “free things cost the most. Now, is there anything you’d like in return?”
Francis wanted to object, but he frankly knew that it was a losing battle.
Beatriz wasn’t the kind who yielded easily, making refusal akin to spitting in her face.
And as stubborn as he was, he understood the value of her services.
“I’d like to rent an apartment on the other side of town,” Francis began. “That way my ripples don’t have an effect on your establishment.”
Beatriz wasted no time, as she instantly began writing something down. “What else?”
“I’d also like to hire a bodyguard for the next few days.”
“How strong?” the clerk asked, quill still on parchment.
“Loyalty is all that matters in this instance,” Francis answered truthfully. “I’ll be skipping town for a few days, and I need someone who won’t sell me to the highest bidder.”
The request must’ve sounded odd, but Beatriz understood the implications better than anyone.
A Descension in the heart of Havana was akin to suicide, rendering distancing oneself mandatory.
“Is that all?” the clerk asked as she finished writing the second request down.
“More or less.”
“Alright, it’ll be done by tomorrow afternoon,” Beatriz replied as she filled the parchment with more words.
***
The apartment Francis was given was less than ideal, but it had to do.
Many would’ve loathed the grime-covered walls and suffocating dust. But to him, it was the most pleasant thing in the world.
He was free.
More importantly, his actions didn’t reflect on those he cared about.
“And with you,” Francis said as he eyed his new artifact, “it’s all but guaranteed.”
Francis couldn’t for the life of him understand why Stacey would hand him such a tool. True, the circumstances demanded certain compromises, but an artifact that alters appearance? That was bound to be worth far more.
Wait. Why does it only grant shapeshifting?
Based on the fugitive’s experience, Supplicant-grade artifacts provided only a boost. Whether it was flames, healing, or lightning, it was practically inconsequential in the long run.
Every muscle in his body urged him to quit thinking about it and focus on the matter at hand, but that wasn’t how he operated.
He had to understand what was enforced upon him.
“Am I truly being forced to do anything?” Francis said with a sigh as he eyed himself in the mirror.
The broad skull, sunken blue eyes, and thin lips were anything but him. Whatever sorcery Xavier used, it was flawless.
Then again, that was far from the most impressive thing that man had done.
“Here goes nothing,” Francis said with another sigh as he attempted to channel the artifact’s powers.
The fugitive’s imagination was far from the most vivid, and so he closed his eyes in an attempt to focus.
The first thing he envisioned was green eyes—a shade of green seldom seen. Such a feature would mark him, but the purpose was never to blend in. Not long after, Francis felt a burning sensation in his eyes, but he paid it no heed.
Next came hair, and in that regard, he had the perfect decoy.
Longish, golden locks.
Locks that he felt growing at an alarming pace.
It’s actually working!
Instinctively, Francis focused on growing blonde eyebrows next, even if a seemingly browless blonde man wasn’t the rarest sight.
The wide skull was appealing, at least in his opinion, but it was a defining feature of his Edmond persona. So he let go of it in favor of a softer cranial structure.
The topic of bone structure reminded him of the adjustments Xavier made—adjustments that made him taller and broader than most. And while some ladies must have appreciated that, he was in no position to choose appeal over safety.
And so, tall stature and thick bones gave way to a shorter, narrower frame.
Blast it, I almost forgot about body hair.
Naturally, the strands he envisioned matched his hair in color, something that must have given him a Nordic look.
Lastly, he chose to refrain from growing a beard, as it didn’t match the profession he excelled at.
Despite being prepared, Francis’ heart sank in fright the moment he saw himself.
The bald man facing him a minute ago was replaced by a… boy.
Or a lass.
Despite being in his twenties, the face staring back at him looked no older than eighteen. It was morbid, especially since he had never exactly known anyone who looked that way.
I’m going to shoot the first guy who shows interest in me.
The disguise was quite frankly undignified, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
Especially those with a 10,000 silver bounty on their head.
Nevertheless, since it was nearing sunset, Francis had to go out to gather intel on whatever he had put to use moments ago.
***
Unsurprisingly, people stared.
In all fairness, it was quite hard not to, as Francis appeared to have strolled into the bar right after leaving public school.
The oversized clothes that didn’t fit his new body only made matters worse, giving the illusion of him wearing his dad’s clothes.
Regardless, his predicament had no place for pride, and so he compromised.
Again and again.
Sadly, the fugitive had no time to come to terms with said compromise, as he was immediately tested.
“You got lost, lad?” a gruff sailor mocked, taking comfort in not being alone.
“Are you sure it’s even a lad?” one of his companions asked.
“Good question,” Francis replied, his new voice still catching him by surprise.
The group appeared to take offense, but they had little to do, as Francis flashed his trusty flintlock shortly after.
“So,” he added, “do you fine gentlemen need anything?”
The trick appeared to work, as the trio left him to his devices.
At least until another group appeared.
Becoming famous, I see.
“You think you can flash your iron as you please? You’re in 12th Street territory!” one of the men shouted, undoubtedly attempting to assert dominance.
“Am I supposed to know what that is?” Francis replied, sipping his ale without a care in the world.
The attitude appeared to anger the group further, as one of them grabbed his mug and threw it on the floor. “I don’t care if twelve or twenty! No one pulls that kind of thing here.”
“I just did.”
Regular Francis would’ve probably never acted in such a manner, as escalation was the surest way to an early grave. But he wasn’t Francis. Not in that moment, anyway.
Stacey instructed him to make noise. And so noise he made.
Let them chase the wrong name.
The only variable that mattered was who was listening, and for that, he had plenty up his sleeve.
Suddenly, the first guy grabbed him by the throat, seemingly at his wits’ end.
“You want to be made an example?” the larger man said, lifting Francis up. “Be my guest.”
The situation demanded urgency under most circumstances, but Francis wasn’t worried. He endured the lightning of an Inquisitor, after all. Asphyxiation was but a breeze.
Francis looked around the bar, green eyes as cold as they came, and noticed that the patrons were starting to pay attention.
Giving him the perfect opportunity to perform.
Within seconds, Francis reached for Ignition, leading the assailant to catch fire.
The larger man threw Francis down as panic overtook him, before he began trying to put the fire out frantically.
The display could’ve been the end of it, but the fugitive needed more.
“You want to be made an example?” Francis said, shooting a column of flames at the already burning man. “Be my guest.”
The goon didn’t have time to scream as the Acolyte’s flames incinerated him, leaving only charred remains that gave up resistance in seconds.
“Does anyone else have more to say?” Francis asked, tone unbefitting of his juvenile appearance.
None spoke.
And so he sat once more and ordered another mug.