Unheroic Life of a Certain Cape-Chapter 46 Dockside Talks

Chapter 46 Dockside Talks
March 3, 2025. Monday. 12:12 p.m.
The boat rocked lightly beneath my feet as I stepped on, the soft slap of water against the hull oddly calming for what this meeting could turn into. The smell of salt clung to the air, mingling with the faint stench of diesel and fish guts. There he was, sitting on the corner of the small boat like some ordinary retiree, his line cast lazily into the open blue.
“I didn’t know you’d really come,” the old man said without looking at me, his voice low and calm, with the rough edge of someone who’d smoked for decades. “But you came.”
“Of course I’ll come,” I replied, my hands stuffed casually into my coat pockets. “Would’ve been rude not to.”
I kept my tone even and neutral. No hint of fear, no crack in my voice. If the Captain smelled weakness, this little meeting wouldn’t stay a conversation for long.
Up close, he didn’t look like the monster whispered about in back alleys and underground clubs. The Captain wore a faded green fishing vest over a plain gray shirt and cargo pants that had seen better days. His skin was tanned, hair graying at the temples, though his face looked no older than forty, maybe younger if you ignored the thousand-yard stare that came with outliving everyone you’d ever cared about. At a glance, you’d think he was just some hobbyist fisherman killing time. At a glance.
The deck jolted slightly as the bulky man who’d led me here, one of Seamark’s nameless muscle-bound goons, gave the boat a heavy kick, sending it drifting farther out into the bay. No goodbye, no instructions. Just the squeak of boots on wet wood as he vanished down the pier, leaving me in the middle of the water with someone who could probably snap me in half before I phased out of reach.
I kept my eyes sharp and my breathing steady as the gap between us and the docks grew wider. This wasn’t the kind of meeting you turned down, not when the man opposite you was one of the oldest capes still walking around Markend… or slithering, depending on the day. The stories varied, but the consensus was clear: where Royal had ruled through coercion and Crow played his games from the shadows, the Captain handled his business with raw, unapologetic violence. If you crossed him, you didn’t get a warning. You disappeared, and sometimes, your remains washed up on shore weeks later, bloated and unrecognizable.
“So,” the Captain said after a quiet stretch of waves and gulls, finally pulling his line in and reeling lazily. He set the rod down beside him and turned his head, sharp eyes cutting through me like a blade. “What’s your relationship with Crow?”
“He’s a customer,” I said evenly, hands still in my coat pockets, body loose but ready to phase at a moment’s notice. “You can be that too, for a fair price.”
The Captain’s eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating, though his expression never betrayed more than mild amusement. “I imagine,” he said, picking up his fishing rod and throwing the line back to the sea, “you offered Royal the same pitch. But where is he now?”
The question hung there, sharp as a knife, and for the first time since stepping onto the boat, my pulse ticked up.
Why the hell would he namedrop Royal?
Among the mercenaries Pride hired, only Blackout and I knew what really happened that day, and even then, only the bare bones of it. Of course, Blackout really didn’t know anything, but that’s the idea. As for the rest of the mercs, they have no idea what transpired. The chaos Sharpy caused was enough to derail the entire thing.
In the end, the official story became a neat little cover-up, courtesy of a quiet deal between Pride and Deadend’s management. Royal’s “retirement” had been explained away, the cash hush money already sitting in one of my offshore accounts. It wasn’t airtight, nothing ever was in Markend, but the arrangement had been good enough to keep the vultures from circling.
So why was the old man prodding me with Royal’s name like he knew something? Did he know? Or was this just another test, meant to see if I’d flinch?
I kept my expression blank, my voice steady as I replied, “I did work a job for Royal, but it’s classified. If you want to know about his majesty’s well-being, you’d have to ask Pride.”
The Captain tilted his head slightly, the motion subtle but deliberate. His eyes glinted, not with suspicion, but with curiosity, like a fisherman deciding whether to keep or toss a strange catch.
“I don’t care much about the gang politics of Markend,” he said, his tone firm but not confrontational. “However… I do care when there’s a new cape in town. Tell me, are you a true-born Markendite?”
My jaw tightened a fraction, though I forced myself to keep my breathing even.
I’d grown up here for as long as I could remember, every street corner and rusted fire escape etched into my memory. But a “true Markendite,” in the Captain’s book, wasn’t just someone who’d survived the city. It meant roots, two generations of bloodline sunk into this rotting port city, surviving its endless cycles of violence and decay. That wasn’t me, and we both knew it.
This was a test. The kind where the wrong answer could end with me sinking to the bottom of the bay, concrete with nullifier properties wrapped around my ankles.
I thought back to Royal, to the day honesty had earned me a second meeting instead of a shallow grave. Maybe the same approach would work here.
“I’m not,” I said finally, letting the words hang in the salt-stained air.
The Captain stood in one smooth motion, the boat rocking gently beneath the shift in weight. His silhouette against the midday sun wasn’t towering or hulking. If anything, he looked almost ordinary. But I had no illusions about who held control here.
Then, to my surprise, he laughed. A deep, boisterous laugh that rolled across the water like thunder, the kind of laugh that didn’t quite match the sharp edge in his eyes.
“Good,” he said, wiping at the corner of his eye with the back of his hand as the laughter tapered off. “Good. You didn’t lie.” I tilted my head, watching the Captain sat back and reeled in his empty line. “Oh, bugger…”
“If you don’t mind,” I said, my voice steady though my curiosity edged the words, “how could you tell I’m not lying?”
He didn’t look at me, just flicked the line back into the water with practiced ease. “If you’re my age,” he said, his tone slow and deliberate, “you’ll know.”
“Wisdom, huh?” I muttered.
He gave the faintest shrug, the corner of his mouth twitching like he found the comment amusing.
It had been a thought of fancy, something I couldn’t help but ask, though a part of me regretted it the moment the words left my mouth. On one hand, I was curious. The Captain wasn’t the kind of man you met every day, and insight from someone like him was rare currency in Markend. On the other hand, the conversation kept circling back to Crow, and every mention of that name made my shoulders tense, like I was waiting for a knife to slide between my ribs.
“What do you think of Crow?”
The Captain chuckled, though there wasn’t an ounce of warmth in the sound. “A very tricky man,” he said. “One I wouldn’t dare challenge in a game of poker. But he’ll have what’s coming for him. The man’s arrogant.”
“Like Royal?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual.
The Captain actually laughed at that, a sharp, rough sound that seemed to carry across the waves. “Oh, not like Royal,” he said, shaking his head. “Crow’s got a different brand of arrogance. His is rooted in his pragmatic intelligence. He thinks three moves ahead of everyone else on the board. Tell me,” his gaze flicked to me, sharp as a knife, “what made you ask such a question to me?”
“Curiosity,” I said simply. My heart thumped harder, but my voice didn’t waver. “And what’s next?”
“I just wanted to see what the famed Eclipse is like,” the Captain said. He adjusted his grip on the fishing pole, the line glinting in the sun like a drawn wire. “Do you want to hear a trivia? Eh, I’ll say it anyway. Flamboyant names…” He paused, his lips curling slightly. “They tend to attract a bad crowd. And I haven’t seen a single person last long in the cape scene with names like yours.”
I blinked at him, unsure if that was a threat, an observation, or just some old man’s ramble. My left hand twitched against my knee, an unconscious movement that barely registered until it was too late.
The mechanism in my sleeve snapped.
The spring-loaded device hissed to life, the compact handgun launching into my grip with mechanical precision. Before I could even process it, my finger squeezed the trigger.
The crack of the shot ripped across the quiet sea.
The Captain jerked back violently, the bullet punching a clean hole in the center of his forehead. His fishing pole clattered against the side of the boat as his body crumpled backward, legs folding awkwardly before settling into stillness.
A dark, ugly blossom of blood spread across his face, dripping down to stain his collar and pool on the boat’s floorboards.
I stared at my hand, the pistol still smoking faintly in my grip, my breath caught somewhere between shock and confusion.
Why… why did I do that?