2022-05-26 - False Flags

June 29, 1915. A day of no particular note to the crew of the small schooner heading into North Bay from the open sea beyond. It's not her destination; the Annie Larsen is chartered to sail for Soccoro Island in Mexico. It's been one hell of a trip.

Captain Schulter set to sea from San Diego, to rendezvous with the steamer Maverick at sea, to transfer her cargo -- 4,500 old rifles, several cacses of revolvers, and 4,750,000 rounds of ammunition, most of army surplus dated from the 1860-70s. The crew was not told where all this was going but a few things were not hard to guess, even for sailors who were too busy earning their pay to worry about politics. The cargo isn't going to Germany -- because the German forces have far better available at home. It's not going to England or France either -- same reason. And obviously, the United States, perilously neutral in this armed conflict in Europe, cannot be supplying either side, anyhow.

The Maverick did not turn up at the appointed time and place. A number of angry telegrams later, it became obvious that the British Secret Service knew of the steamer's destination and the Royal Navy Cruiser H. M. S. Newcastle trailed her until her captain chickened out.

Fair enough. Longer trip than expected, more pay than expected. The crew grumbled but what can you do. Times are hard and everyone needs the money. Captain Schulter turned the Annie Larsen towards Acapulco in the hope of meeting with another ship there -- but as it turned out, the forces of the Mexican Revolution had no love for potential gun runners, either. The schooner was seized by Pancho Villa's forces -- and only through a combination of bribery and protests from the officers of the U.S.S. Yorktown which was also at Acapulco at the time.

She returned to Socorro Island to wait for the Maverick to make a second attempt -- but the steamer never turned up. Water and provisions once again running short, Captain Schulter elected to find a U. S. port north of San Francisco and let his superiors know that the smuggling scheme was a dud.

The port is Hoquiam, and the crew of the Annie Larsen are tired and hungry. They want to get back to shore, pick up their pay, and be united with their families. And they want to be far away from this cargo of old, derelict firearms destined for the Indian resistance movement. The United States are neutral in this conflict; and being neutral means that running guns to the anti-British forces and being paid by German agents to do so, is looking at one hell of a jail sentence if caught.

And here we are -- a tired, grumbling crew knowing full well that their cargo could land everyone in prison or in front of a firing squad. Water and food is running out, forcing the schooner to port. There's only two ways this can end well: They restock and head back to sea and the Maverick finally turns up -- or they disembark, and the cargo disappears without a trace. The one thing that cannot happen? The authorities find out that everyone on board is technically a German spy -- no matter how much they're just a sailor from San Diego who weren't told what the trip would be.

The greatest lumber port in the world spreads out at the end of North Bay; Gray Harbor in all its glory. The port of missing men, the Hellhole of the North, the best place in the United States for a sailor to disappear. Along with the Civil War era shipment of old guns intended for sepoy rebels.

Doctor Thule stirs from their cot and immediately knocks an empty whiskey bottle onto the metal deck. It shatters, making the doctor groan with bleary eyed annoyance as they sit up. What was that? Staggering over to a mirror, managing to avoid the glass with bare feet, Zara squints at the reflection before their eyes open wide in confusion and apprehension. It is a man's face staring back at her. Memories stab at her mind as she tries to make sense of this. Her name is Anders Thule, M.D. M.D. - the crew are convinced that M.D. stands for Medical Dunderhead - and she, he, is the ship's doctor on the Annie Nielsen. No, thinks Zara, that's not true. I'm Zara Thule and this is a...oh God...it's a Dream.

At least they are dressed, though they smell like they spilled half of that bottle on themselves. The room is a mess and Thule is not feeling much better. Zara can't help it, she has to pull her pants forward and take a look. A shrug and an expression of 'not bad - could have been worse' before she tries to find some clean clothes. Should she shower? On this ship that is communal and Zara is perhaps not ready for that yet. And she has stubble. Well, that will be no harder than shaving legs or other part, right? She can handle that.

Once Thule has changed and nicked themselves shaving multiple times, it is time to leave the cabin and see what the Hell is going on. Maybe someone else she knows is here? But what will they look like? Anders' memories are helping Zara as she lets more of them surface. Though the ones about Lydia the Tattooed Lady she will happily suppress once more.

What's worse than waking up in a Dream? Waking up in a Dream about something you've been googling about, knowing that it doesn't end in great news. In a body that is not your own. Ava's hand is draped in her lap, causing her head to tilt down. Really not her own. The body is actually that of a James Clifford Marrison, a young sailor, barely into his twenties and still pretty wet behind the ears.

This was just supposed to be a quick way to make money. He has no skin in this game, just wanting to make some quick, extra cash to put away for his family back home.

Poor, stupid kid. James pushes up, shifting out of the cot and stretching with a grunt. At least James knows how to walk in this body because Ava does not, and she is far too aware of dangling things to be able to process the proper leg movement without accidentally brushing things. How do boys do it? The sailor goes through the motions of what he has to do every morning.

In the back of his mind, Ava's mind is beginning to spiral. Wait, this was supposed to have something to do with Haggleford. That's what Myles and Nicasia were investigating when the ship came up. What the hell could he have to do with this outside of the fact that it's near Gray Harbor?

It's not always easy being an ethnically ambiguous, mixed race man in 1915 America. 'Tolerance' is barely a thing; 'equality' is a very, very long way off. There's something different about Mikaere's features, not that there's a mirror on the deck of the Annie Larsen for him to see it with. It's something about his hands: the hands that Michael Hastings, sailor, stares at for a moment as the hauls at his rope. They're covered in tar, sure, but it's something else, something in the hue of their darkness; still brown, but...

But what? Michael Hastings is yet another ethnically ambiguous sailor, an American mutt who falls at the bottom of the societal ladder, never likely to take so much as half of a step upwards. He's a sailor; he'll always be a sailor, unless this particular voyage goes even further tits up.

"Heave!" comes the call, and Michael heaves.

He does what he's told. That's how you get through life, one foot in front of the other, one hand in front of the other.

Indian independence? That's a nice idea, maybe. Beyond Michael's understanding, though Mikaere, stuck in double-vision, memories layered on memories, experiences on experiences, has definite unease about this: none of this rings a bell, maybe, but that doesn't mean it doesn't have one hundred per cent every indication of being a disaster waiting to happen.

Ah, the sea. It’s as close to freedom as some people will ever enjoy. All the more so when one is, indeed, “ethnically ambiguous”—or rather, the mixed-race product of degradation, privation, and enslavement. Julio, who came abroad in San Diego, will tell you he’s Luiseño—the Spanish name for a group of native peoples subjected to Spanish missions, displacement by unscrupulous ranchers, California’s ill-named Act for the Governance and Protection of Indians in 1850, allowing for Indians to be “indentured” (read: kidnapped and enslaved), and forcibly moved onto arid land, requiring many to look for work elsewhere or starve. The truth is more complicated than that. Luiseño, yes (the Pechanga band, if we want to be specific), but no longer just that thanks to indenture and desperation.

All the more complicated when Julio was discovered to actually be Julia. As she put it, she doesn’t give a shit what people call her as long as they keep their hands to themselves. To punctuate the point, she put a knife through a hand that wandered too close and sent the sailor to Dr. Thule. Word went out among the crew: Julio-Julia is not to be fucked with, and she keeps knives on her person at all times.

She might’ve been put ashore at another port for her transgressions, except for how she’s proved herself as physically capable as any male sailor, not to mention a dab hand in the rigging. That’s where she is now, perched in the foremast.

It’s where Jules surfaces long enough to realize that the motion of the ship now differs from the motion in the berth where she went to bed. Sailing vessel: check. But a vastly different one. And her hands seem to know what they’re doing in this Dream incarnation, whereas Jules Black most certainly does not.

Slightly less ethnically ambiguous, perhaps, is Joaquin Cruz, the Annie Larsen's dissolute Master-At-Arms. Squint at him and he passes for a white man; but one look at that brutish profile, those sloe-lidded eyes, and there's no question he's no born and bred American. His ancestors were conquistadors and Cuauhocelotl; blood and slaughter have made Mexico what it is today. And the country makes the man; and the man is no American. Never mind that he was naturalised as one as a child, when his family emigrated to Texas during the labour shortage.

He rifles his fingers through hair that's gotten a good deal longer, swings out of his rack to find he's in a shirt and no pants, and resolves to correct the situation with a scowl. Pants. Where the fuck might he keep pants around here? Once he's dug some out, tugged them on and is in the process of fastening the belt, the next item on the agenda is finding himself a gun. He makes a quick check beneath his pillow, inside his clothing drawer, and runs a hand under his mattress.. bingo.

The Colt 1911 is slid out, magazine unloaded so he can count the rounds quickly. Then slotted back in again, and tucked into the back of his belt, under his jacket. Boots by the hatch, he shoves his feet into them, and lets himself out.

Hoquiam, on the north side of North Bay, looks like all harbour and no town from here. The town's name means hungry for wood in one or other of the indigenous tongues local to the area -- and while that name undoubtedly was given for the driftwood piling up at the mouth of the Hoquiam River, it seems apt now that the harbours of Hoquiam and Gray Harbor combined are indeed the largest lumber shipping port in the Pacific Ocean.

To the crew of the Annie Larsen, Hoquiam means fresh food and fresh water. The year is 1915. Every soul transferred from 2022 is acutely aware that refrigeration on a small schooner is not yet a thing, and the salted pork and the dry biscuits are worm eaten, stale, and what's worse, scarce. Hoquiam means proper food, a chance for a proper bath, a proper bed -- everything, really. Port of Missing Men? Who cares, when it's also the port of fresh food and fresh water.

The luxury of sleeping in a real bed, alone, rather than in a bunk in a room shared with half a dozen other men (and women, in at least one case)? Glorious. And in case of several, no doubt, a chance to bail from this ship of failed charters and maybe find work that doesn't involve smuggling firearms in and out of contested waters. The Annie Larsen's crew was lucky that there just happened to be a US Navy warship nearby in Acapulco. They'd still be detained there otherwise, if not rotting in some Mexican jail or labour camp.

"Look sharp," calls Captain Schulter. "And for all that's good in this world, look normal. We'll be putting in nice and quiet, and if all of you miserable bastards can just act normal we'll breeze right under inspections and anyone who wants to disembark can get moving."

The threat is implied; when the customs officer comes aboard there will be an inspection of papers and the cargo manifest. Don't give him reason to go look in the hold. We're going to be here for a very long time if you give him reason to go look in the hold.

And sure enough, there it is -- the longboat putting out from a pier, steering towards the Annie Larsen. Here's to hoping that the local customs officer is blind, indifferent, or taking bribes.

Zara/Anders staggers up onto the captain's deck and peers through squinting eyes at their surroundings. It can't be...but it is. "Of all the ports in all the world we had to sail into mine" they mumble under their breath. Why can't she have a Dream in a tropical island? Nope, it has to be Gray Harbor. "Good morning, Captain" they remember to greet Schulter before rubbing at their chin and the various bits of paper stuck on to stop the bleeding. Most of them now lying on the deck.

"I will certainly be as normal as I can" they assure the skipper, though they aren't really sure what normal is when sharing a body. Just let Anders take over to make sure Zara doesn't make a big faux pas? If only Zara was willing to take that chance. If she is here, then it is her who is supposed to do something here. "I'll go down and welcome the harbormaster aboard. Nothing like a medical...man...to show off the professionalism and upstandingness of the vessel. Is that a word? Upstandingness? It is now." It takes a moment for Zara to figure out which way gets her to the deck but Anders is there to help. Besides, to onlookers, it probably suggests that Dr. Anders has a hangover. Again.

Disaster? Still imminent, or so says Michael/Mikaere's gut. On the other hand, that might be the stale food that's rattling down in there; the water that's just not as fresh as it used to be. Mikaere's no stranger to long-term boat life, but there's a world of difference between a fancy sailboat in 2022, and... this.

Michael is itching-- let's be honest, literally itching-- to be ashore, and at this point he'd probably do anything to make sure that happens. Big, work-hardened hands check the ropes, tugging each knot with a practiced gesture just to make sure they're all in order: he may not be the watch commander, may have no authority, but if a little extra diligence is what it takes to get off this cursed boat? He's in. There's got to be something better waiting for him in this town, and if not this one, maybe the next.

Mostly, though, it's all about looking busy, now: the real work is done, and that just leaves room for trouble. Mikaere keeps an eye out, casting his gaze carefully over the assembled crew. It's an interesting mix, and he's not (yet) spotted anyone he knows-- though he's bound not to be alone. Best to try and nip any trouble in the bed; all the better to get back home, to bed, and to...

Shit. His bed. Mikaere's bed.

Jules.

That self-same Jules is currently struggling not to panic about the fact that she has no clue what she's doing while hanging a good ways above deck bringing in the sails. The sensation is eerie, dislocated. Some part of her watches her own hands continue to work and feels her body's confidence in its perch up there on the foremast. Panicking and sending her own mind screaming to the fore will only get her seriously injured. It becomes an exercise in self-control to let this other persona continue to work unimpeded. While too high up to truly catch all the captain's words, the sentiment he taps into is real, and Julio/Julia is hankering for a bath. A private bath, the ability to change into fresh clothes, unguarded sleep, all without the necessary furtiveness, caution, and knife just a hands' breath away.

You're not possessed. Not possessed. Not possessed.

That's the mantra ringing in the back of her mind as she finishes her task and eventually -- finally -- clambers down from the rigging. Boots hit the deck with a solid thud when she jumps the last few feet. Her hair's trimmed short, just long enough to pull back into a tight ponytail, skin further darkened by sun exposure, and her musculature changed in subtle ways from daily physical labor, but that's Jules alright.

Sharp? Is it possible to looks sharp when you haven't eaten proper food in who knows how long, and you haven't had a good night's sleep since the first day you got on this stupid ship? Probably not. But that doesn't stop James from echoing some of the other Sailors with a "Yes Captain," as he moves around the ship to help clean up some of the last few odds and ends. Nice and tidy. Don't draw suspicion.

It won't matter. Ava knows this, frowning as she eyes the crew, hoping for some signs of a familiar face in the crowd. The doctor already knows how the story ends, but she doesn't know all the bits in between, and it's that part that's making her all kinds of nervous as she lingers in the back of poor James' mind.

"Give 'em your brightest smile, Doctor." Captain Schulter glances at his ship's physician; the man seems to have cut himself several times while shaving -- usually the sign of a shaky hand, though whether from a severe hangover or prolonged stress is anyone's guess. Actually, it's not a very hard guess; if the crew ends up in a county jail, the ship's doctor might find himself counting fleas on Mexican <s>slave</s> indentured labourers sailed across the border illegally, to <s>work themselves to death for miserable pay</s> a leisurely life of picking oranges in California. Honest shipping companies don't much fancy hiring jail birds, and the man has plenty reasons to be concerned.

Everyone wants the same thing. Everyone wants to hear the gentle thud as the Annie Larsen comes to rest against a Hoquiam pier. To see the gangplank lowered, and then off into the night -- some to return after a night on town, a proper bath, some privacy, and maybe a tumble in one of Gray Harbor's many, famous whorehouses and saloons. Some to never be seen again, because maybe it is better to disappear without pay than to go back to a ship full of Civil War era firearms destined for the Indian subcontinent. A sailor can claim ignorance only so far.

As far as 'why did you not alert the officers of the U.S.S. Yorktown to what your cargo is, back in Acapulco?' The only acceptable answer there would be, "The captain had a gun to the back of my head, Your Honour."

Captain Schulter and Supercargo Walter Page wait on deck with Doctor Thule as the dinghy comes to rest alongside the schooner and the ladder is thrown down for the customs officer to climb aboard. He turns to be a tall man with a mouse face and a receding brown hairline, neatly dressed and carrying a small document bag over one shoulder. As his feet land on the Annie's deck he extends a hand towards the captain and introduces himself: "Good morning, gentlemen. Deputy Collector of Customs Sebastian at your service."

"Schulter," says Captain Schulter with the kind of thin smile a man gives a tax inspector. "We're destined for a port in Mexico but weather and circumstances forced us to port."

"Ah," says Sebastian. "Can't say I blame any captain for not wanting to stick around Mexican waters at this time. The revolution and all that, quite untidy."

"We were detained for a bit in Acapulco, yes." The captain might as well not make a secret of that; the Yorktown will have reported the incident, and if this mess does end up in a courtroom sometime further lies will only make his case worse. Besides, being attempted hijacked by Pancho Villa's enthusiastic if not always professional soldiers is not a crime.

Next to him, the supercargo stiffens as another man makes his way up his ladder. This one is a handsome devil in his thirties, and oh so out of place by the looks of him; the white suit and walking stick makes him look like a Southern gentleman farmer who's taken a severely wrong turn at Alberquerque. The modern souls inside bodies living in 1915 will be reminded of a youthful Colonel Sanders (and as that enterprise was not founded until 1956, their 1915 selves will not get the reference). By 1915 standards the man looks -- well, old-fashioned in that 'making a statement here' of wealthy Southerners whose fathers or grandfathers might well have been using and losing the war with some of those guns down there in the cargo hold.

To some of the displaced souls from 2022 he's just a Southern dandy. To others, he's a thirty-years-younger version of a man they've met before, some of them several times: Carnelian Haggleford, the man called Evil Santa, thwarted several times in abducting people from around the Gray Harbor area for God-and-Haggleford-only-knows what reasons.

"Haggleford," Page says shortly and nods at the man.

The younger-than-previously-sighted Haggleford smiles at him; a smile that somehow reminds one of a Great White trying to look friendly. "Othmer," he returns the greeting -- and then the smile widens. "Oh, wait -- that's not it. Page, isn't it?"

"Oh, you've met?" Sebastian the customs officer smiles lightly. "Mr Haggleford represents your company here in Hoquiam, Captain. He requested to come aboard and I see no reason not to oblige him. I trust your paperwork is in order?"

Maybe it is and maybe it isn't. "By all means, let's go have a look," Captain Schulter agrees because what can he do but hope that Sebastian can't be bothered to look into the cargo hold or only bothers to open the couple of crates up front that contain normal, legal shipping goods.

Haggleford.

It means nothing to Michael, of course, and he's not especially impressed with this particular newcomer, making himself busy atop the deck under the continued instruction of his superiors. Yet another swanky toff, reminding the world how far lower they are than him; yet another reminder, for Michael, of how little he has in this life. Mikaere, within, is not so lucky: his hands may be working, but his eyes are not, because they're fixed on Haggleford, just staring.

He still hasn't recognised anyone else, though he's aware he's very likely not alone in this. Haggleford, though... it raises so many questions. And above all, it raises that quiet sense of alarm just a notch higher: nothing goes well when Haggleford is around.

Carefully, he attempts to extend a thought across the ship, hunting down familiar minds. He shies well away from Haggleford, but the others: Who's here? Can you hear me? Can anyone?

Anders/Zara summons a bright smile for the guests, and even manages to keep it when the name Haggleford is mentioned. She knows of him. Even encountered some of their Dream work but has never set eyes (real or sleep) before now. What she thought would be a Grand Wizard ten feet tall is, in actuality, a Colonel Sanders impersonator. Her smile now looking a bit creepy as she stares at the man but he has his own creepy smile so it's only fair. "Doctor Thule, ship's...umm...doctor" she manages to introduce herself to the visitors before getting out of the way of important business.

And now someone is talking in her head. The Spiritualist has no way of replying mentally, instead, she is rather perturbed by the whole thing. It even triggers feelings from when she worked at The Asylum. Feelings of dread and danger for the most part. She looks around the deck for the cause. Maybe someone mouthing the words she can hear because that's what Mentalists would do. Right?

Maybe it is Haggleford? Though that's not really what she expects him to say. She should follow him. See what he is up to. So, trying to ignore the voice, she now follows after the ship's owner.

Now, Jules has not met Haggleford previously and has no ability to recognize him, but Mr. Southern Gentleman over there just looks like a bastard. Julio/Julia shares this opinion; persons of his ilk generally spell bad news to persons of color. Together, they eyeball him from where they stand, then apparently make the decision its best to look busy.

The unspoken voice that comes floating her way gets her attention, and she stands up straighter to scan the deck immediately following. She recognizes that mental signature, and it shifts attention away from Haggleford to instead search for this other recognizable presence. Michael -- Mikaere -- is spotted there on the deck, and Jules nudges that shared body of hers on just what direction to go for that looking busy.

"Looks like we got company," she says conversationally as she draws up alongside him. "Need a hand?" It's not really a question. Jules is going to stick alongside the one other person she's identified this far (other than Haggleford) and direct her 1915 self to pitch in doing whatever it is that sailors do. "See anybody else?"

Javier, too, has not yet met Haggleford in the flesh. Heard plenty about him, though. He's probably the sort of man likely to wind up at the bottom of his boot, both in his real world incarnation and in the form of Joaquin Cruz, master-at-arms. Mexican trash. Little better than slave labour to a fellow like that.

He ambles on over slowly, thumbs hooked in his belt, dark eyes squinted at the gentleman. He's aware of something else happening, while the conversation drones on. Like a fin skimming the surface of the water; the thought that carves past. His hooded eyes cut toward Mikaere, rest on the other man a beat, then shift back to Haggleford. "Capitán," he speaks up gruffly, "I'll go." He lumbers forward. "Come on, I'll show you where the hold is."

Haggleford.

Ava knew this had something to do with him. But seeming him brings on a whole different sort of anger. There's a small mantra playing over in her head, reminding her not to set him in fire, no matter how tempting it would be.

Mikaere's voice in her head seems to help, James' head giving a slow sweeping pivot to try to figure out exactly where that might have come from. All the while James himself continues his job, cleaning, watching, not really getting what the fuss is about with the weird looking guy.

The hold. Ava pushes for control, James' body shifting, starting to work back towards the door. If he accepts, she'll have a head start.

On a modern cargo hauler, the hold is accessed through doors and down stairs. The hold can be accessed from above -- allowing cranes to deposit containers and crates into the hold. Outside of port, though, the deck is closed, denying access to the ship's insides. A schooner ship is no different but for one thing -- it's built from wood, and nowhere is hermetically sealed. Eavesdropping is entirely possible, whether by 'coincidentally' having work to do below decks too, or going to sit on the cargo hold covering while splicing a rope -- everyone else does when they have nothing else they need to be doing, because the small open deck area between the cargo hold and the forecastle is the only open, accessible area on deck, and no one wants to spend a minute longer under deck than they have to. To say that the ship smells of tar, salt water, sweaty bodies sharing too little place, moldy cotton, and food that's gone slightly off is an understatement.

The people of 1915 know this. Their invisible riders from 2022 are quickly finding out. There are few secrets on a wooden tall ship; it's not large enough and nowhere is sound proof. A whispered conversation, too hushed for others to make out the words, is the only option.

Fortunately for the crew of the Annie Larsen there's another factor in play: Barring the ship's doctor, none of them are officers. Gentlemen care little for the ears of the crew, and the crew has every reason to keep their mouths shut and pray that the customs officer sods off as fast as possible. Captain Schulter is not going to draw attention to there being something wrong by chasing sailors away from the cargo hold and the conversation he happens to be having in it. He and Sebastian descend into the Annie Larsen's dark insides. They pause a moment on the stair to allow their eyes to adjust; there's a reason sailors in times of yore often wore an eyepatch -- that way, one eye would be accustomed to the near-pitch black darkness of below decks and the other to the bright light of the sun above.

Schulter opens the door to the cargo hold but makes no move to step inside; why would he? It's crates upon crates upon crates, and he's not going to volunteer to open a few. Stencils on the sides of the crates declare their contents: Engine parts for combine harvesters, parts for industrial looms, assorted other mechanical components produced in the US for the Mexican market. Sebastian studies the cargo manifold with sharp eyes (and a small pince-nez).

Out back, on the staircase, the supercargo slows his step long enough for him and Haggleford to have a hissed conversation that no doubt is meant to be private -- and that's why you just read two paragraphs about why nothing is ever private on a wooden schooner built in the mid-19th century for cargo hauling.

"You're not supposed to be here," Page hisses at the southern gentleman.

"Neither are you," Haggleford points out pleasantly in that not-quite- British, not-quite-anything-familiar accent of his; cultured and yet foreign. "In fact, you're supposed to be at Socorro Island, waiting for the Maverick, Othmer."

"Page," the other man hisses. "Fuck's sake, half the crew's already guessed I'm German because of my accent. If customs gets it in their head I'm a spy, we're screwed."

"You're already screwed," Haggleford points out, ever so politely. "The Maverick isn't coming, and Schulter isn't going to agree to deliver the goods to Bombay himself. That's why I'm taking over, Herr Othmer. Don't worry, none of them will remember this conversation in five minutes."

"Page," the supercargo repeats, weakly. "What are you going to do?"

"Well," says Haggleford and looks towards the cargo hold. "If Sebastian finds your guns? He'll confiscate them, of course, and then I will find a way to claim or purchase them from the port authorities. If he doesn't? We'll move them to a warehouse here in Hoquiam and find a ship that's capable of taking the round trip to India so that I can lift them on the high seas. I'm Carnelian Haggleford, my friend, I go where I want, and I buy who I want."

Then he nudges Page on. "Go on, my man, let's go look like professionals."

One thing is obvious from the way the otherworldly trader conducts his business: He is very familiar with the way the Veil revises reality to cover up the weird. Normal crewmen overhearing this exchange likely wouldn't remember anything unusual about it -- nothing about German names or boastful claims. The one other thing that's also obvious is that Haggleford clearly has no idea that a small handful of souls from the future are listening in -- and they will remember.

And why the Veil wants those soul to bear witness to an incident in 1915 is anyone's guess.

Alas, Mikaere does not mouth any words-- oh well. No, he's just another deckhand, keeping busy, though his eyes do light when Jules approaches, his nod one of quiet acknowledgement and some small measure of relief... and also concern. On one hand, great that the woman he's seeing is here too; on the other, if this goes south? That's two potentially bloodied people returning to a bed on a boat. Good times.

"Grab a hold," he tells her, managing not to break too much of his cover. "Just--" he pauses, catching Ruiz' glance, and gives the man the briefest of nods. He doesn't recognise him, but that's fine. "Him." But if there's anyone else, he's missed them, though hopefully they'll at least know, now, that they're not alone, whatever face they wear.

It's easy-- so easy-- to overhear Haggleford and Othmer-sorry-Page. A few steps to the left, a few careful movements, and then it's crystal clear, right there in front of them (more or less).

What the point of it all, though, is where he's a little lost: what does Haggleford want with the weapons, with this cause? Probably not what it seems... but that doesn't help explain anything. He gives Jules a frowning, questioning glance. Any ideas?

Zara discretely listens to the pair while, quietly, checking the ship's stores in the cabin next to the hold. There may even be a knot in the wood to look and/or hear through. Does no one trust anyone on this ship? She looks confused at what she hears. "Why would a trans-dimensional wizard with the power to steal souls need to start an armed revolt in India that would fail? There can't be enough weapons on this ship for success and who knows what shape they are in anyway. Does he just like causing chaos? Even if it barely causes a ripple? No, there must be something else.

Zara does her best to remember every word so she can tell Ava when she is back in her own time. As far as she knows, voices in her head notwithstanding, she is the only one here from the future.

Not that she has any idea how she is going to get back to her own time and body. If she's trapped here forever, she will have to leave something for Ava to find in the future. Or mail it to her. Didn't they do that in a movie once? And, as usual, it seems Haggleford doesn't give a damn about the people he is hurting. Sure, he can claim the weapons if they are seized, but all these sailors will be in jail if that happens.

And though the idea is abhorrent to both doctors in this body - is this the chance to kill Haggleford before what happens in her time?

So Jules grabs on to assist, and her 1915 self obliges. Extra work is extra work, but she’s also managed to keep from being thrown off the ship by proving how useful she is. Allies among the sailors aren’t to be taken lightly.

Jules follows Mikaere’s indication to catch sight of the modern-day chief of police before he disappears, playing ship tour guide. “That’s Javier de la Vega,” she murmurs, filling in the knowledge gap. “Head of the po-po.” Yes, po-po, because modern day slang won’t raise alarm bells if she’s overheard in the same way that police likely would aboard a smuggling vessel. “He’s like us. Well, like you. As far as I know. I’ll tell you the story sometime.”

Not now, though. They’ve got eavesdropping to do. Jules just shrugs, expression momentarily baffled. Hell if she knows what Haggleford wants with this vessel.

Kill Haggleford before his time? Kill him in 1915, when he is at least thirty years younger than he appears in 2022? Before he can do the damage he has done over the last year or so in Gray Harbor -- and that's only the damage anyone has heard of. If he's been operating here for more than a century, then two things are clear: He's got a very long life span, and he may have been behind a truly amazing amount of problems in Gray Harbor's history.

He's probably not the cause of Gray Harbor's troubles. He's certainly somebody who has benefited from them.

What kind of time paradox would be the result of tying a crate of rifles to his ankles and tossing him overboard in 1915? That probably depends on whether this is actual history unfolding -- or a Dream about something that happened more than a hundred years ago. Do you feel lucky, punk?

Meanwhile, Sebastian studies the cargo manifold with a critical eye. Those who have managed to find an opportunity to look into the cargo hold while eavesdropping will notice him glancing at Captain Schulter. "Going to be up front with you, Captain. We got a tip in port that something might be off on this ship. Your manifold looks fine -- no prohibited goods, nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that warrants you being detained in Acapulco, either. Maybe it's just bad luck. Maybe it's more."

The customs officer keeps looking at the captain. "Schulter is a German name, isn't it?"

"It is," the Captain agrees. "My parents came over through Ellis Island. I've never been to Europe."

"No connections to Germany, then?"

The Captain shakes his head. "I'm an American citizen, officer. The war in Europe is Europe's problem."

Sebastian chuckles. "My mother's English and my father is from Dublin. The war in Europe had better stay over there, because otherwise, I'm going to be seeing them fighting it in the kitchen, hah."

The door opens behind them, admitting <s>Othmer</s> Page and Haggleford. The former looks worried; the southern gentleman looks quite cheerful.

"Well, well," Haggleford announces. "Everything is in order, is it? Have we inspected the crates yet? Or do I get to help? It's like Christmas, isn't it?"

Mikaere's gaze tracks towards Ruiz again as Jules provides the context and he nods, just once: got it, connection made. "Okay, that's good to know," he murmurs, keeping his voice as low as possible, both because there are things to eavesdrop on and because unlike Haggleford, he doesn't especially want to be overheard.

Nudging Jules beside him, he ventures just a little closer to the hold, finding more busywork along the way to try and keep himself occupied: just another sailor, doing his job, nothing to see here. 'Like Christmas' Haggleford says, and Mikaere hisses through his teeth.

"I don't like this," he admits to Jules. "I don't trust him. We're all expendable to him, and that means..." Beat. "Be on your guard."

Way to state the obvious, Mikaere.

Jules willingly ambles closer to the hold, sticking by Mikaere’s side. She’s curious to a fault, and the opportunity for better eavesdropping is golden.

Yeah, yeah, be on your guard and all that, but not so cautious that it means missing out.

“What is with this guy.” Her brow furrows to match her frown. “What does he want with a load of old guns? What’s he going to do with them?” Jules only has questions. She can’t even speculate, just shakes her head in frustration. “I don’t get it.” She huffs out a grumpy sigh. “So what’s next — follow him off the ship, see where this goes?”

Clean clean clean. That's what James is good for, and like a good sailor that's what the lad is doing. But he's sticking close, curious. Maybe too curious? Spotting others being nosy, the eyes dart that way, to the bodies Mik and Jules are inhabiting. They're close enough to speak to, but they're all close enough to be overheard, as well. It's tricky. His tongue clicks thoughtfully as Ava considers. "Isn't it all just Shiny? Finally about to get a chance to get off this rig and sleep in a real bed." The words are whispered, testing.

Of course, Haggleford is showing up again, and those eyes turn towards the man, blazing with a fury that nobody on the ship in this decade has any business having.

Supercargo Walter Page may be mouthing 'no, no, no, shut up' to Haggleford; Customs Officer Sebastian just shoots the elegant man in white a strange look. "The paperwork seems to be in order. Are you suggesting that your company might be shipping contraband, Mr Haggleford?"

"Goodness, no," Haggleford returns pleasantly. "I'm insinuating that my company wants to be certain that the whole detainment affair in Acapulco was not an excuse to load or unload cargo that my company doesn't know about. It wouldn't be the first time."

"I'm aware," Sebastian murmurs. "And you don't want to be held accountable if a surprise inspection by the Coast Guard does in fact turn up something. Very well. Let's open a few boxes and verify that we are looking at engine parts and looms."

There are few things paler in this world than the faces of Captain Schulter and Walter Page at this moment.

Sebastian looks around. "Very well. That one, that one, and that one." The crates picked out are in the front -- not the first three, but definitely not the last three, either.

He reaches for a crowbar and uses it to take the lid off one crate. Sure enough: Neatly stacked engine parts, each labelled and wrapped in sack cloth. A combine harvester is going to get its inside replaced somewhere, and it'll be entirely legal.

The second crate? Long comb-like devices, stacked and labelled -- scuttles for industrial looms. Heaven only knows where Schulter picked up crates of such mundane cargo; he probably marked them as 'lost' on previous shipments and simply kept them in the cargo hold until needed.

The third crate might be the reason Page is sweating so profusely: Its contents are covered in sack cloth too, and when removed? It's bottles, unlabelled. Sebastian frowns and glances at the manifest. "What's this, then?"

"That's a very good question," Haggleford supplies, helpfully. "It's certainly not a bucket of sprockets for a combine harvester."

Schulter sighs. "It's whiskey. Low grade shit-ass whiskey. Look, I sail up and down the damned coast line, all the way down to Santiago, Chile, and back. Sometimes, I need to slip a little something to somebody, and not spend six weeks in quarantine because I refuse to bribe the harbour master. No offense, Mr Sebastian, but American port authorities? You people speak English and you have rules. South of the Panama Canal? That's not how it works."

Sebastian looks up from the cargo manifest. "Is that so, Captain? I'll agree that the situation in Mexico is dodgy at the moment, with the Revolution and all, but Peru and Chile are not at war. We see a fair bit of shipping trade that way. We are the largest lumber port on the Pacific, Captain, not some backwater fishing town you just pulled into because it was closest."

Page looks at Haggleford and starts to reach for something under his coat. It's probably not a cigarette.

"You'll receive nothing but full cooperation from the company," Haggleford says and steps in front of the supercargo, placing himself between Sebastian and the man. "However, I do feel that a crate of moonshine is a very minor offence. We'll declare it for customs, of course, and pay whatever fees are required."

Sebastian nods, slowly -- a tad mollified perhaps; a crate of cheap booze really is small beans. "Very well. Have the crew take this crate up on deck." He turns to Schulter. "And for your own sake, Captain, I recommend you have the crew go over the rest of the cargo as well and find any other contraband you may or may not be aware of. Don't give me reason to search your ship from aft to stern because if you do, and I do find something else, I will give you Hell. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," Schulter murmurs and turns around to head for the cargo hold door.

Up on deck the command is barked out: "Every free hand to the cargo hold right away. Look for anything that's not supposed to be there. You know what our cargo is -- if there's anything there that's not supposed to be there, mark the crate with chalk and have it hauled aside."

The crew knows, after all. It's old guns and ammunition that's supposed to be there, and this is a show. There's one or two crates more of tobacco or moonshine planted down there exactly so that over-eager customs officers can find 'something' and go on their merry way.

"We--" Mikaere's answer for Jules gets cut short, and that's for a couple of reasons. For one, there's that lurking young man, and his use of that particular word, the one that draws Mikaere's brows up and up, and sends his gaze firmly in that direction. He's not himself, but he's not wholly unrecognisable; James, of course, is a little more difficult to determine.

Still, it's hard not to miss that blaze of fury.

"The shiniest," he agrees, dryly, half muttered but still pitched to carry. Hello.

And then there's the other distraction: everything else that's going on, culminating in Schulter's order which, inevitably, must include this particular trio. Mikaere/Michael's salute is barely worth being called by that name, and his slouching, unwilling passage into the hold. Mentally, Mikaere is inevitably wondering about how smart it is to get the crew of the ship herself to be doing this inspection... but he's also not likely to argue, is he? Keep your head down, Mikaere. Get it done. Get home again. He mutters, loudly: "Fuck's sake, I just want to get off this damn ship, and now this? Fuckers."

Michael knows what he's doing with a crowbar, and he knows enough, too, to make a show of the work: nothing to see here. Nope, this is not a crate of guns. No, those boxes of ammunition are definitely supposed to be there, of course they are.

But what's Haggleford playing at? That's the question that's furrowing his brow and turning his attention to those others he's now clocked, in some form or another. There's a tight-coiled tension in his stance, as he attempts-- struggles-- to figure it all out.

Now, Jules holds a highly limited knowledge of modern-day sci-fi and fantasy trends. For all she knows, the slang Ava/James uses comes straight out of the time period they’ve found themselves in. Her quizzical expression conveys as much when the other sailor addresses them. It’s the way Mikaere responds, as well as that tell-tale anger, that truly clues Jules in.

She’s recognizable enough, in a body that’s mostly her own. A different haircut, a different way she holds herself, different musculature from this life of physical labor, but her face is the same. Her scowl is exactly that of the Jules Ava and Mikaere know back home.

“Sí,” she says, her alter ego’s native language temporarily replacing her own when the orders are given. To the hold, then. She’s no happier to be there, tight-lipped and grim-faced as they work with the crates, continuing to conceal the true contraband. “That’s four,” Jules murmurs. Four crates? No, four out-of-time compatriots that they know of so far.

Zara is pretty sure that, as the ship's doctor, he/she does not have to deal with crate movements and openings. She wouldn't be surprised if that moonshine belonged to the person she is inhabiting - he seems a bit of a drinker. Freed of manual labor, that lets Zara ponder on the slaying of Haggleford once more. If it's a Dream, then it will be cathartic if nothing else. If they have somehow travelled back in time then she will be saving dozens of lives...and souls. The main problem is that doctors don't kill. Not intentionally.

And what would Zara kill him with anyway? It's not as if there are any guns just lying around to be used.

Zara stays closer to Haggleford and company once the requirements of the Customs Officer has been determined. Standing around quietly and innocently. As far as she knows, she is the only one from another time to have to make a big decision. Such responsibility!

"Mikaere." His voice in her head was recognizable enough. "Jules. Ava." Just so they know who she is, because of course she's not recognizable in a male body. Everything is still whispered. Not that it would make sense to anyone listening anyway. "I think this one was picked from my head. Myles and Nicasia were researching it in connection to that son of a bitch." Obviously she means Haggleford.

Here we go, another box with a stash of stuff for the over-eager customs folks. "Help me haul this up?" she requests. She chalks the side of the crate and starts to drag it out of the hold. Time to make a good show of it. And at least this way she can go back to keeping an eye on Haggleford.

Crates are opened, and as no one is calling out about the discovery of guns and ammunition, odds are that Customs Officer Sebastian stays ignorant. He's clearly not suspicious enough to have his own people come on board and carry out this inspection -- and why would he be? So a ship's captain or the supercargo decided to make a bit on the side, haul a few extra crates of moonshine without declaring them -- it happens all the damn time, every single day. They don't call this city the Port of Missing Men for nothing; Gray Harbor and Hoquiam, on each side of the Chehalis, form a hell hole where men go to get drunk, stabbed, laid, buried, and disappear, possibly not in that exact order. That kind of place uses a lot of booze, and cheap booze is good booze.

"Bloody mess," Schulter murmurs, to Doctor Anders and to Walter Page. What else can he do? Either some crewman alerts the customs officer, or they don't. If they do, the goose is cooked. If they don't, maybe it isn't.

Walter Page is pale as a sheet. And with good reason; it's clear to anyone who managed to overhear his conversation with Haggleford that his name isn't Page; that he's a German agent or spy operating in a USA that is still very strictly neutral. Drops of sweat descend like glistening beads on his forehead and temples. He's two breaths and a sharp look from panicking, and it's not very hard to tell.

The smug smile on Haggleford's face grew another inch while no one was looking in his direction. It's obvious that he's got the situation in hand -- whatever his end game is. The way he smiles at Page and Schulter leaves neither man -- or any of the crew surrounding them -- in doubt that no matter what happens next, Haggleford is coming out on top. He's the kind of poker player who has an ace in each sleeve, a few in the deck, and bribed the dealer to make sure he gets any extra required.

Sebastian can tell something is off. The Customs Officer glances at the captain and his two cohorts, Page and Anders, and then at the men handling the crates. He arches an eyebrow slightly at the one who is very obviously not a man -- but it's 1915, and suffragettes are campaigning hard that women should have the vote in the states they still don't. Wo,men sailors happen -- they have always happened -- and there are stranger things afoot here for him to worry about.

Maybe that's why he wanders over to those people handling crates -- Michael, Julia, James. He doesn't know that they've listened to most of his and Haggleford's respective conversations. (If he had heard Haggleford's conversation with Page himself, he wouldn't need to ask). "Everything in order here, crewmen? If there is something amiss on this schooner, a judge is going to go a lot easier on a crew that cooperates with customs. Aiding and abetting is a crime."

Nothing like a nice, implied threat. And behind him, Haggleford just smiles and keeps right on smiling.

Mikaere's expression is solemn as he acknowledges James-slash-Ava, identifying her with a quick widening of his eyes that does not, it seems, require additional verbal confirmation. He's quick to come to James' aid, to help with that particular crate. He's strong, and probably stronger in this incarnation of himself than in his normal body; it should be a simple thing, really, to help get that crate out of the way, and then to move on to the next.

"Everything in order, sir," he promises Sebastian.

It's an accident, really. Genuinely an accident. One moment he's got it all balanced tidily, and the next... his foot misses a step, and he staggers. This crate may not contain any of the 'real' contraband, the things they most definitely do not want to come to anyone's attention. The one he trips into, knocking over with the force of his backwards-flailing leg?

That one's a little less innocent, and made all the more so when he knocks it over, and sends boxes of ammunition cascading over the hold when the lid, so recently loosened, comes straight off.

Oops.

Oh Mikaere, what is you doing?

There’s a minor power struggle playing out between the twinned minds inhabiting the same body. Julia is all for saving her own skin. It’s how she’s survived thus far, and she’d like nothing more than to cooperate with the customs official when Michael goes and knocks over the ammunition.

“No sé—” she gets in quickly before Jules takes over and coughs out an ahem. “Sorry sir, that is, we’re not privy to the details, sir, as crewmen, just here to sail the ship.” She does her damndest to look convincingly guileless, though maybe that’s hard when there’s ammunition rolling around behind you.

James is wondering if he can swim for it. How far can he make it, really? It's better than life in a jail cell. Anything is. But Ava's ability to keep in control is fueled by her hatred of that smug looking Haggleford, so it's rather firmly in place for now.

Her eyes don't even move as Mikaera accidentally knocks over the ammunition, staying firmly ahead on the customs official. "I clean and I sail, sir. Information isn't my specialty. That's what my momma always said, anyway." One might think it were a joke, if not for the almost sad, dumb expression on the poor boy's face. He's most assuredly not the brains of this operation.

The crate is set down, freeing her hands. Seeing that look on Haggleford's face, those fingers are just itching for a fight. It's taking everything inside of her not to just light his jacket on fire right now.

Zara watches the ammunition fall from the crate with a curious look. Not because that there are bullets rolling around the deck in plain view but the distinct possibility that could mean there are guns nearby too. And that means shooting down Haggleford! The Anders side of her is more alarmed than curious. The drunken doctor is never curious and isn't interested in what is in the cargo. Keep a low profile is his motto. With a surname of 'Thule', he is often suspected of being a German so he stays right out of politics. Though he may be thrown right into it. And/or jail.

Sebastian looks at James as he promises everything in order -- and then accidentally knocks over a crate of what's very obviously rounds of ammunition. If a combine harvester has been invented that uses rounds of ammunition like these, Sebastian is going to need to revise his plans about some day retiring to a nice little farmstead somewhere. Farming just got a whole lot more extraño, as that dark-skinned girl in sailor's pants might say.

He looks from one to another. Are any of them even American? The one who's glaring daggers at the company man, Haggleford -- possibly. The others, some are obviously Hispanic, may even have signed on in Acapulco. And there's the Doctor with the -- hell, what kind of name is Thule, anyway. Thool? Thoo-leh? The Captain, with his German name. The supercargo with his American name -- and his German accent. Something is so fishy here it has gills.

The customs officer turns to look at the Captain -- when the southern gentleman steps up. "Goodness," says Haggleford, and manages to sound genuinely surprised. "It seems everything isn't in order. I must insist, Mr Sebastian -- the law is the law, and the last thing we want is legal trouble. I'm sure there's a procedure for this kind of situation? You'll have the company's full cooperation, of course."

"Yes, there is," Sebastian replies and stares at the man in white as if wondering what exactly is going on here.

Then he finishes his turn towards Captain Schulter. "Captain, I have no choice but to detail the Annie Larsen until a proper search can be conducted. I must warn you that you will likely be facing charges. I strongly recommend that you come clean -- I don't think I need to tell you that a charge of espionage is going to land you in some very hot water, sir."

Captain Schulter looks at Haggleford. Haggleford hitches a shoulder.

"You do what you must," says the Captain at length. "I follow my company's orders."

"As do we all," says Haggleford, congenially. After all, whoever sent the Annie Larsen to sea wasn't him, so he has nothing to lose. Maybe even less, considering his earlier conversation. "Our full cooperation, Mr Sebastian."

"Stay at anchor here," Sebastian instructs the Captain. "Don't be stupid and try to sail off under the cover of darkness. Hoquiam has several patrol ships in the area, you're out of food and fresh water, and you'd be unable to put into any American port."

"I'm not suicidal," Schulter reassures him, grim-faced. And he has reason to be; sure, these are old guns but they are guns -- and they must be going somewhere that the USA does not want them to go. Somewhere that isn't Mexico, because if it had been, they'd have been delivered. He's looking at a lengthy trial, and one that likely ends with him behind bars.

One last glance from Sebastian back at the sailors. Whatever the truth is, they know it -- and he knows that they know it. Loyalty is admirable -- but sometimes misplaced. He shakes his head, and walks towards the ladder to his boat. Haggleford follows on his tail, having no intention of staying on board -- but then, if he wants to make it seem the company had no idea the Annie Larsen carried illegal arms, then he needs to be able to prove he has had no previous communication with her officers.

Mikaere probably does not actually mean to broadcast what he broadcasts next-- truly. There's more wallop in it than intended, and his control is perhaps not what it could have been (should have been?).

Fuck, fuck, fuck, shit, fuck, sorry, sorry, really didn't mean to do that, fuck.

The part of him that is Michael is utterly dismayed: there goes any chance of getting off this boat without incident. The part of him that is Mikaere? Yeah, drawing attention was not the plan.

He stays where he is, crouching on the floor, his gaze lifting up towards Sebastian, Haggleford and the captain; so wide-eyed, so utterly stupid. That's not to say he's not listening, of course, but--

Well, shit.

Every inch of Julia’s frame is tense as she watches Sebastian and Haggleford head towards the ladder that will take them back to dry land. She flinches, though, when that mental litany resounds inside her skull.

After another stock-still second, she steps up to Michael’s frozen form and reaches down in an attempt to hook her hand around his upper arm and tug in an effort to get him to his feet. “Get up,” Jules hisses at him. “Whatever happens, be on your feet.”

As for Jules, she’s above all attending to Haggleford, watching him sharply to see how he reacts to that broadcast.

Don't light him on fire. Don't light him on fire.

The fingers at James' side twitch as Ava watches Haggleford moving for the boat. There's no following him off the boat to see what he does, but if she starts trouble, things could go bad. But then Mikaere's voice is yelling in her mind and James flinches. Shit.

Well, if they're going to draw attention anyway, might as well direct it. "Really Haggleford? You're not going to Portal off on us already, are you? Or do you have other people you need to set up for your crimes? That is what you're best at, isn't it? Using others for what you need with no consequence to yourself. Their lives, their souls, their bodies. Even now. I thought you might have been a little less of a bitch and it was the plague that made you heel turn. But I guess you were always just a snake."

Here's Michael, staring at the customs officer, the company man, and the captain like he -- or they -- just fell down from the Moon. Not a whole lot of reveal going on there -- and as far as at least Sebastian can tell, not a whole lot of going on at all. Cargo ships need big, strong men who can carry and load without the brains to complain too much -- and this man is clearly one of them. He probably did drop that crate of ammunition by accident. He doesn't look like he's smart enough to have 'accidentally' dropped it, in order to tell on his captain.

The woman sailor -- the sailoress? -- yanks at his arm, hissing at him. To get his act together, no doubt. Maybe she's protective of him -- women do tend to be protective of child-like minds, don't they? It's instinctive, probably. Sebastian doesn't know.

He half-turns because the sailors aren't talking. Have they been promised a percentage of the pay? More likely they've been told that if the ship's officers take a fall, so do they, the poor suckers.

And then another sailor starts talking, and as far as Sebastian is concerned, he's not making a whole lot of sense at all.

Haggleford, on the other hand, does not look very surprised at all. He quirks an eyebrow at James' accusations and then nods as if somehow, this all makes sense to him. "Oh, I should have seen this coming," he murmurs, half to James, half to himself, in the fashion of a man who really should have known better than to expect the trains to run on time.

He's the only one who reacts right away to James' barrage. Then, a second later, Customs Officer Sebastian reacts to the one word that immediately rings a warning bell for any harbour official: "Plague? Is there a health issue on this ship?"

No port anywhere ever wants to allow a plague ship to dock and unload its potentially lethal cargo. Other sailors of the Annie Larsen stop staring at Sebastian and turn to stare at James instead. What does he know, that they don't? The schooner's not plagued -- is it? Does anyone have symptoms of something more severe than a bit of scurvey, maybe some rashes from a questionable business transaction in Acapulco?

Haggleford squints. Maybe he recognises something. Maybe he doesn't. Maybe he just knows what James is on about, unlike anyone who actually belongs in 1915.

"There isn't," Captain Schulter says, in all earnesty. "Doctor Thule can testify to that. We have complete medical records of every crew member, from they boarded until now."

Sebastian frowns. "I'm going to need to see those records, and have a doctor come out here to verify them. We haven't had outbreaks on the American continent since San Francisco in 1900, but Cuba and Puerto Rico both recorded casualties in 1912."

Bubonic plague -- the Black Death -- has made the rounds along the shipping lanes since the first recorded outbreak in the mid-6th century; it reduced the population of Europe by a third in the mid-14th century, and the third large pandemic broke out in China in the mid-19th century. It's one of those ever-present threats shipping ports must be guardinga gainst, and it's going to be another couple of decades before peniccilin finally renders the disease no big deal.

"Fantastic," Haggleford mutters and glances at James. "Are you happy now, son? You just earned us all a quarantine on this boat, on top of having to deal with the legal issues of arms smuggling."

"If the crew checks out in a health inspection it'll only be a day or two," Sebastian tells the captain. He has no choice. Hoquiam and Gray Harbor combined is the largest lumber port in the Pacific, and one of the most trafficked. If plague takes root here, it'll spread to every industrial harbor in half the world. Not to mention, of course, the North American continent. He turns to head for the ladder, and then half-turns once more to look directly at Captain Schulter. "Don't try to run, Captain. I'm not saying you're dumb enough to try. But just in case the idea crosses your mind -- this is a Navy port, and the US Navy will not think twice about sinking a plague ship at sea."

They really won't. It wouldn't be the first time.

"My apologies, Mr Haggleford." Supercargo Walter Page has finally found his voice somewhere, German accent and all. "If you'll come with me, you can spend the wait in my cabin."

Sebastian yells over the railing, to his boat men. "Go back to port, Mr Adams. I need Dr Shaughnessy and Lieutenant Rowlins."

The mariner at the stearing oar nods up at the customs officer. The names must hold whatever significance is required; Shaughnessy is likely to be the port physician summoned to inspect ships with potential medical issues -- and Lieutenant Rowlins is likely the officer in charge of searching ships with suspicious cargo.

"Actually," Mr Haggleford says, to the supercargo's surprise, "I'd like to stay on deck. I think I recognise this young fellow." He nods at James. "Might as well spend the wait catching up."

Something in his tone might suggest to Walter Page, or Othmer, or whoever, that now's the time to walk away and give the gentleman and the sailors a bit of privacy. At least he nods and does indeed start walking.

Haggleford looks at Michael, and at Julia as well. Then he looks back at James. "I don't actually recognise any of you," he murmurs. "But it's quite obvious that somewhere or somewhen I will. What's your interest in this operation, and how do you propose we solve this mess with a minimal loss of life?"

Mikaere-- Michael-- nudges the remains of the box of ammunition out of the way with his left foot, his whole posture, stance and expression changing, now. He crosses his arms, giving Haggleford a studying, narrow-eyed look, one that leaves few questions about how he feels about the man; and how easily he'll recognise him, next time they inevitably come face to face.

"'Minimal loss of life'," he repeats. "I didn't think that was your deal. Or is that yet to come? Maybe more to the point... what's your interest in this? Weapons for India; I don't much think so."

Dark eyes shift away from Haggleford just briefly, flicking towards Julia and James, as if to gauge their current emotions, encourage cool heads; they turn back, quickly enough.

It is most unlady-like, the way the woman among them starts swearing under her breath. Julia, who’s done so well blending in and keeping her head down, has a few particularly colorful ones from the early 1900s.

She only leaves off the damned zounderkites and fucking chowder-headed flapdoodles (plus a few in Spanish) once they’ve been left alone with Haggleford. Jules takes over once again, lapsing into her own much later speech patterns. “I’ve never met you, dude, but I’ve heard about you,” she answers Haggleford, sticking to that with the most forbidding look she can summon.

"I'm sorry, sir" Anders/Zara calls out to Sebastian as he tries to make his escape. "If this ship is to be quarantined, you can't go back to shore. Step away from the ladder and I will get those medical records for you." Well, she would if people didn't start calling out Haggleford..or yelling in her mind. Of course, she has no idea who they are but then, she doesn't look like herself either. Maybe there is a friend here? For now, though, she keeps to herself. Might be able to surprise attack Colonel Haggleford at an opportune time now that the gig is up.

Which crate has a gun in it? Or maybe there is another way...

"Mr. Haggleford, perhaps you would like to accompany me to the medical cabin and I could do a quick check-up that will have you on your way? I don't think we need another doctor to confirm anything." The look she gives Sebastian suggests this is the only way he'll be allowed to leave the ship in a hurry. "Though if you are serious about quarantine, then that boat should not be allowed back to shore either. We'll have to radio the port."

James is watching all of it. The quarantine, Haggleford getting stuck here with all of them. Inside of his head, James is pissed off. But Ava? Oh, she is delighted. That look that's shot back in the man's direction when he asks if James is happy now is all Ava. He can tell that she is quite pleased even if there isn't a smile there to indicate it.

After his approach and the others are gathered around, her head shakes to Mikaere. "Not for India. He and his are like little scavengers, they take goods from other worlds, realities, what have you. They call it trading, but really it's just taking. After all, this crew ended up in prison after Haggleford's little trickery, and he, no doubt, got away with his weapons in the end."

James' eyes look the man up and down. "You don't know me yet, Haggleford. You won't recognize me when the time comes, either thanks to this borrowed body. But when the flames engulf your entire body just seconds before you pass out from the pain, maybe you'll actually remember this moment." A sparkling blue eye winks.

Is Zara close enough to hear? She'd recognize the story from Ava. Not to mention the attitude.

"I'm very serious about the quarantine, Doctor." Customs officer Sebastian makes no move towards his boat; there's no point in quarantining the Annie Larsen if he then gets back to shore himself, carrying a possible spread. Sebastian is clearly one of those bureaucrats who take their job very seriously -- also when it is inconvenient to themselves. "I realise it's probably just a figure of speech but once 'plague' is mentioned, I have no choice."

"Radio?" echoes Captain Schulter, stumbling over the unusual description for the radio telegraph. He's an older man, and while this new-fangled radio-telegraphy business is catching on fast in the shipping trade, he's still not quite used to it.

"Perhaps we should talk," Haggleford agrees quite pleasantly -- and heaven only knows what Sebastian, Schulter, and Page hear, because they seem entirely unbothered and unquestioning of how the white-clad company man wanders off to a side, towards the little group of sailors around the dropped munitions crate.

He lowers his voice a bit all the same. "It seems that you have the advantage of me, gentlemen -- and er, ma'am. You know me, but I do not know you. And from what you are saying, I am guessing we are not on the best of terms in the future. That is regrettable, and I would certainly prefer to find a solution to our little quandary here that works for everyone involved. Let me guess: You are Dreaming?"

Seems he knows that terminology, at least. The extradimensional trader smiles, lightly. "That, of course, cannot be helped. I doubt you had any say in the matter. And I am quite certain you were sent here to be an obstruction. The dark ones harvest in my reality just as they do in yours, and it's certainly nothing new that they try to make my task harder. Am I to assume that you have an interest in these all but antique firearms, then?"

He twirls his cane in a quite lackadaisical fashion. "I do hope not. Because you're quite right, sir: These weapons are not going to India, they are going to my home dimension. And I will get them there one way or another. If you are telling me this little mess has to end with the entire crew in prison, I am going to counter with the option that we make arrangements that lets the crew -- and you -- walk free, while I get the munitions I came here for. Everyone wins."

None of what Ava-- sorry, James-- says is news to Mikaere as such, but that doesn't mean he doesn't acknowledge her comments with a nod of his head. Still, he's relatively impassive when he turns his attention back on Haggleford. "Why don't," he says, reasonably, "you explain your interest. In fact, it'd be helpful to hear from you your side of this whole... ongoing engagement we have. You want the guns. You want, I believe, a lot of things. Why? This is your chance, Haggleford. You don't exactly have a good reputation in our reality."

In this instance, Jules is quite happy to let someone else do the talking -- she hasn't encountered this extra-dimensional man as directly as some of her compatriots have. So Jules crosses her arms over her chest and sticks to the role of scowly back-up, though she can't help but admit a little smirk at Ava's description of firey pain. A sharp nod confirms Hagglefold's guess: Dreaming, yes.

She's quiet, at least, until her curiosity gets the better of her, at which point Jules wants to know, "What do you need the weapons for?"

That James fellow has a similar story to... "Ava?" Zara blurts out before realising her mistake at giving Haggleford a real name. Not that he noticed. Right? Anders/Zara makes her way over to the person who could be Ava. "Doctor Thule." She says her surname slowly, stretching it out. No one would ever notice such subtle hints except Ava.

But this is all about Haggleford, not identifying possible friends. Zara is quite interested in what the man has to say for himself too. "Why do you keep refusing medical treatment for the plague in your dimension" she whispers in a hurry to the man. "Is there even a plague or is that how you keep control." That this could be all years in the future for Haggleford is not considered.

If looks could kill, James' would roast Doctor Thule alive. "Doctor Thule, how nice of you to join us. Remind me to kill you when we get back home." For blabbing her name. "Careful," she warns Zara. "We don't know what has or hasn't happened for him yet at this point or what he'll remember from this, if he's even really here in this with us to remember it or not. But if he is and he does, we don't want to be the ones giving him information that he uses to do the shit we hate him for in our time." Vague enough to be understood by her crew, and not by him. Or that's the hope.

Ava stares at him thoughtfully. "We don't care about the weapons, we're here for information. You want the weapons, you talk."

"Hmm." The man called Haggleford dips into his white vest pocket to glance at a small gold watch; it has four arms rather than two, and there are thirteen numbers rather than twelve. "Very well. It seems you know a great deal more about me than I do about you, and I rather suspect our future relations are not particularly cordial."

He smiles a little, wryly. "And you were sent here in a Dream to get in my way, obviously. Has it occurred to you that sometimes, we are one another's monsters? This time, it seems you are the obstacle I must overcome, in order to get what I need. The weapons? I need them, to trade them. There are many realities that do not have access to gunpowder."

"You already know of the bone eating plague that torments my people, it seems." He looks at Dr Thule (and the woman within him). "There is indeed a plague, ma'am -- sir. It is spreading rapidly, and I am hunting through the realities for anything that might work as a cure -- and things to trade for a cure. And from what you are saying I am going to venture a guess that in my future, your present, you do not have a cure for us, either."

The trader -- wizard - munitions merchant -- whatever it is that he considers himself to be, glances back at the other men; Schulter, Page, and Sebastian. "Schulter and Page -- whose name isn't Page -- are Germans; they think these guns are going to the Indian independence movement. The Indian unrest is not doing England any favours in the war effort. I couldn't care less about their war. I need to move these crates, and I will make it appear that the company that sold them to Schulter bought them back. The crew will be detained but, there's no evidence that any of you -- or rather, the people you are riding -- knew what cargo you were carrying. They'll be released with pay in short time. Schulter and Page will probably not be so lucky, but do you really care all that much what happens to foreign spies during a war that's probably already over whenever you're from?"

"You ought to ask us if we can help," points out, Mikaere evenly. "Instead of just taking from us. You haven't." He rubs idly at his chest, feeling for scars that aren't there in this guise; perhaps there's a phantom pain, anyway, a stretch of skin that doesn't hold the same marks.

"We won't prevent you from taking your weapons. We would ask that you try and work with us instead of against us. I realise this is futile-- you've already made that decision, in some future guise. But damn if I can't push for diplomacy anyway."

Jules’ attention jumps to the fourth person joining them, the ship’s doctor, and her eyebrows go up when it becomes clear that they’re one of them. No recognition on her part, but Ava-in-James’-body seems to know them, and that’s good enough for Jules.

Haggleford is not without a point: his monsters. “Huh.” She listens, head tilted to one side. “I don’t care about German spies,” Jules pipes up. “I do care about plagues. And preventing them. Or treating them in ways that don’t cause further suffering.” Now, she looks to the rest of her crew, gaze lingering on the doctors among them. “Who’s to say that if we agree to try to work together here and now, that won’t change our own future? That’s a thing, right?”

"Violence is never a first resort," the man in white agrees -- quite uncharacteristically for anyone who's met him 117 years into the future. Either he's changed his ways and opinions in the interim, or he's lying through his teeth. He glances back at the trio of officers -- Page, Schulter, and Sebastian -- and then to the sailors who to his eyes are obviously not just sailors (and a ship's doctor). "When are you people from? They do this -- send you across time and space. It happens to us as well. The news that in some possibly quite distant future, we have not managed to resolve our plague problem is not good news."

He looks almost hopeful. "I hope you're not from decades ahead. It can still be contained. We have to hang on to that hope. I'm willing to hear your proposal -- and here's mine: The Germans are arrested for munitions smuggling, the crew are let go, and life goes on. The weapons end up bought back by the company officially, and unofficially, I find another way to ship them to my home reality."

Mikaere casts a quick glance towards James/Ava, and to Doctor Thule who is, to him, still a stranger. Mostly, though, he seems determinedly focused upon Haggleford, the knit of his brows suggesting he's having some difficulty working his way through what's been said. Finally, bluntly, and with a little push of his power, he asks, "Are you telling us the truth?" He'll know.

"This is a Dream," he adds, with a shrug, verbally confirming that which they all already know. "I'm not sure we can trust anything that happened here, and I'm pretty sure we can't actually change history. That's the problem. I'm not," he adds, to Haggleford, "inclined to tell you when we're from, though. That's not how this works. But if there is any chance of this actually being received... work with us. Try. We'll let you have your weapons. What can you tell us about your plague? Maybe our doctors can come up with something."

As Haggleford says that violence is never a first resort, James actually scoffs at him. "You fail to understand how much more of an asshole you've become in the future," is offered with a lift of a single brow. Arms fold over his chest, which is awkward for Ava who is used to something being there to fold over. There's a moment of uncomfortable shifting.

"If there's a chance that you remember this, we aren't giving you information you can use to target us. Because you will, eventually." Ava is in firm agreement with Mikaere on that one, giving the man a quick nod. "You decided we couldn't help, and you had to handle it on your own, the plague. But if you give us information now, with the developments we've had in modern medicine which are nothing like they are in this current time, there may be a chance for a vaccine. Or a cure."

Jules starts to respond to Haggleford’s question on their whereabouts (whenabouts?), sardonically saying, “Try more like—“ She catches herself, hearing Mikaere and Ava’s refusal to share dates, and clamps her lips shut. Too late, perhaps.

If Customs Officer Sebastian is thinking anything about the way the company man, Haggleford, suddenly seems to be having an animated conversation with the ship's doctor and a number of crew members, he keeps his concerns private. Perhaps it's not so surprising after all; it's probably not the first time that the Annie Larsen sails for the company that Haggleford is an agent of. He may know these men (and the woman) from past excursions. He may be trying to get them to talk -- after all, if they testify against the captain and supercargo, not only the sailors are likely to go free, but the company is likely to not be incriminated, either. Is it justice? Hell if Sebastian knows. It's the way the world works, though; it's never the brass that takes a fall.

What are supercargo Page and Captain Schulter thinking? They're probably trying to plan ahead already -- how to not end up facing a firing squad or a life in a labour camp. Maybe they have connections -- German diplomats, other undercover agents, heaven only knows.

Haggleford glances at James; the hatred in the younger man's eyes is burning into his face like coals in snow. It doesn't take a genius to put together that any confrontations with these people still in his future are bound to go poorly. But maybe the future is not written in stone? He glances at Julia, the woman sailor who started talking and then quickly shut up. Maybe things are even worse than he thought.

"It's a plague," he says at length. "A magical disease. We don't know the cause. Children are born with it; their bodies degenerate and their bones turn into jelly inside them. They don't survive to adulthood. At first it was just a few but now it's every child that's been born in the last decade. You can probably imagine what this is going to do to our civilisation, to our species, if we do not find a remedy. Your reality here is one of science and machines. Your instruments cannot describe or treat a condition that is inherently magical in nature. If any of you have any actual experience trying to study or manipulate the Veil in such a manner, you know this. We have maybe thirty, forty years to eradicate this plague, before it's too late. Before people become too old to breed a next generation."

Mikaere's mental probe confirms at least to Mikaere that the man is telling the truth -- or if he isn't, that he's found a way to ward off against such intrusions.

In 2022, it's been 117 years. Maybe a cure was not found. Maybe drastic measures were taken in the meantime, to buy more time. Maybe bad choices had to be made along the way.

The man shakes his head and sighs through the beard that will someday earn him the nickname of Evil Santa. Then he pinches the bridge of his nose. "There is another reality, parallel to this one. There is a creature there -- a guide, of a sorts. I believe you people, or well, the people of this era in your reality, call it the Receptionist. I will leave samples and information with this creature for you to pick up when you return to your own time. When I am informed that it has delivered them to you, I will know that we have met -- here. What happens next will depend on what has happened in the meantime, I suppose. But for now, I cannot afford to not take the hand offered. People are dying."

Mikaere shoots Ava a glance, just a brief one (and then one for Jules, too, though neither is especially chiding: just a glance), then refocuses his attention upon Haggleford, giving the man a slow, careful nod of acknowledgement.

He swallows, his expression deeply serious, brows knitted tightly in concern; he winces, too. "I'm very sorry to hear of it," he says, quietly. "I can't even imagine how that must be-- and how desperate that must make you." He's being honest, here, with a sorrow to his voice that is unquestionable. "You'll understand, of course, that as sympathetic as we are, and as willing to help-- there will be limits. We won't take acts of violence sitting down."

Still, he's quick to take the lead here: the calm, reasonable spokesperson. "We'll see that they're collected. We'll do what we can. It's true that we're a world of science and machines. But we will try, I promise that. We don't need to work against each other."

Jules knows a thing or two about decimation by plague. So does Julia, for that matter, in her own time. She closes her eyes briefly as Haggleford describes just how the disease operates. The empathy that softens the harsh set of her jaw is completely real.

“The Receptionist,” Jules repeats quietly, throwing a glance towards the others. “I haven’t heard of them—have you guys? But we’ll find them.” Not try. Will. “Can you give us a location?”

Ava looks back towards Mikaere with hard eyes. She knows exactly what she's saying, and her restraint right now is pretty much as good as it's going to get. Thirty or forty years. God. Given that it's children, Ava can't say she doesn't see how hard it would be not to do whatever it takes to save them, but Haggleford has gone too far. "No. We can't heal magical disease, but that doesn't mean that something can't be done. There may be someone who can help."

At the mention of the Receptionist, Ava nods. "If they're an -ist, I imagine we can find them with the others. City Hall?"

"Mr Haggleford. I will need your help to verify the cargo manifest." Customs Officer Sebastian has no intention of standing around on the Annie Larsen longer than he has to -- and he's anything but excited about having to invoke the quarantine paragraph on top of everything else. It'll be a few hours before his own doctor from port can confirm what Dr Thule can already tell him: There is no trace of the bubonic plague on board.

There are numerous crates of old rifles and munitions from the Civil War. And there are a captain and a supercargo who are both German agents. Sebastian has no way of knowing it yet, but the events he's witnessed today will put his name into the annals of history; one of the most spoken-about smuggling cases in American history.

On June 29, 1915, U.S. Customs officials at Grays Harbor seize the schooner Annie Larsen, which is found to be carrying arms and ammunition in violation of neutrality laws. This is the end of an ill-fated attempt by Irish and German operatives to foment violence in India against British authorities during World War I. The man in charge of the mission is one Walter Page of Kansas City, whose true identity is L. Othmer, a sea captain whose ship had already been interned by U.S. authorities.

Deputy Collector of Customs R. L. Sebastian found the munitions and seized the cargo as contraband as well as the ship, believing they were bound for the war in Mexico. The crew was placed under arrest. That night, Page, dressed in underwear and socks, got permission from a guard to go forward. He slipped overboard to an awaiting rowboat and made it ashore where an automobile waited to help him make his escape.

The government condemned the shipment and sold it at auction to the surplus dealer who had sold it to the Germans the first time. The proceeds paid a $500 fine and the freight bills run up by the chartering broker. Captain Schulter loaded a cargo of lumber for San Diego.

And in Gray Harbor, a hundred and seventeen years later, a small group of people wonder if there has been a parcel sitting waiting for them in another reality, for all those years.

It's jarring, to wake up back in your own bed, after that. Mikaere wakes with a start, nearly banging his head against the wall of his bunk, safely back aboard the Wā Kāinga. He reaches out-- Jules.

A sharp exhale, and murmured, through the darkness? "The Receptionist. We're going to need a mover."

Shooting up awake, Ava sucks in a deep breath and checks beside her. Carefully she slips out of bed and grabs her phone, heading for the stairs so the light of her phone isn't a bother. She settles onto the couch with a heavy sigh and starts sending out a quick text to the others who were in the dream with her.

We're going to need to get to Their City Hall. Here's hoping that stuff is still there.

Jules is right there, finding Mikaere’s hand and entwining their fingers for a quick squeeze. She doesn’t let go, instead shifting and reaching with her free hand for her phone as it lights up in the dark.

“One who can get us back.” Her returning remark is not without some frustration for her own impotence. “It was always just a matter of time.”

Keyed in to the group text: I’m in.