Fic; The Story About How Lieutenant McCoy Met Mr. Summers, Oceanpunk 'verse
Title The Story About How Lieutenant McCoy Met Mr. Summers, for this prompt
Rating PG for now
Summary The HSS Cerebro picks up some unexpected cargo in the form of Alex Summers and Hank is Not Amused. Oceanpunk 'verse.
Disclaimer Will never own, boo.
To Hank, the ocean stretched uninterrupted as far as the eye could see, and then some. Unfortunately, his glasses were broken in one lens and so there was some fuzzy back-and-forth image-jumping going on and he wasn’t able to see that far, actually, but thankfully, that was what telescopes and binoculars were for. Hank was a practical sort of young man. On his person he always carried a spyglass, a pen and notebook full of diagrams and formulae, a dagger stuffed into his right boot, a pistol in a holster at his waist, a compass, and a picture of his mother in a pocket watch in his chest pocket. This picture was not practical, but sentimental; he hadn’t seen his mother in two years, not since he joined the crew as the navigational scientist of HSS Cerebro, captained by Erik Lensherr, who had led the fleet responsible for the detainment and arrest of one Sebastian Shaw, traitor to The United Islands of America.
That had all been well and good, Hank supposed, but it seemed that the capture of Shaw would be the pinnacle of Captain Lensherr’s nautical career, as for the past year-and-a-half he had led his crew on a wild chase around the seven seas for a lost British royal named Charles Xavier who must have been very important or else very imaginary, because there was no sign of him anywhere in history and all the captain ever had to go on was some vague niggling feeling in his gut, until some anonymous note or sign would appear to him and they’d be high-tailing it to the other end of the ocean. Six months into the search, the Brits and the Islands both had called it a dead-end and had given up, but for some reason the funds had kept coming in to keep the HSS Cerebro afloat and on the chase.
“Land, ho!” came the call from Sean, their lookout, who had a pair of his own binoculars pressed up against his eyes. “Hey, hey! What is that?” Hank glanced up at him sharply and followed the young redheaded man’s line of sight. It would be too late to cut the engines or drop the sails, or even to bank to the port or starboard sides. Whatever it was had seemingly popped into existence right in the ship’s path, floating serenely on the deep blue of the sea. It looked to be a huge mass of metal, so, actually it had probably been there for a while. It was slightly raft-shaped, but with some sort of belly underwater. Hank reasoned that the reflective properties of the metal had camouflaged it a bit from their view, to its detriment. Then he reasoned that it was indeed made of a very dense and pure metal, as their ship crashed into it headlong and it refrained from breaking into pieces but did bob and tumble and scratch the starboard side. The HSS Cerebro gave a mighty shudder but continued along its path, and Hank was glad that no one had woken the captain for this, until Sean again shouted, “Ho!” with a point of his finger. He said, “Man overboard!” That was when the engine was shut off and they began to coast, dropping anchor.
And that certainly got the crew moving. It went against every credo that young seafarers had ever been taught, the most important of which was: Leave no man behind. Chief Mate Darwin appeared at Hank’s side, leaning far over the edge of the ship, the crispness of his navy uniform creating sharp lines against the horizon. Hank looked at Darwin’s uniform enviously. Compared to the chief mate’s, Hank’s was dusty and faded, more grey than navy - he would have to talk to the Chief Steward, MacTaggart. He shuddered at the thought of complaining to Moira MacTaggart, who ran stock and inventory. If she didn’t like the nature of his complaint, he could be facing a week of tasteless, lumpy gruel.
Their seaman had jumped into the water by now. Hank watched as he swam with powerful strokes, floater over his shoulder, towards a blonde head in the water. When Janos, their seaman, reached the body, Hank stared, fascinated, as the blonde headed man raised a fist and slugged Janos right on his olive-toned cheek. This was followed by a brief tussle in which Janos may have ducked the other man’s head under water a few times too many, because when they both surfaced and Janos had dragged them over to the small boat that the crew had lowered to the sea in order to haul the two men back up onto the ship, the other guy was spitting mad, coughing up water even as they pulled the lever to raise the boat. Janos clambered onto deck and the man, wet and shivering, fell onto it. “-and I’ll sick the Kraken on you and your families! Oh, Poseidon and Neptune, Scott’s going to kill me,” he was ranting, somehow rolling up into standing. His stance was belligerent, and the crew took an involuntary step back as they, as one, reached for their pistols. The crew again moved as one to attention, booted heels clicking, when Darwin stepped forward towards their newest passenger.
“Citizen papers?” Darwin asked, tone neutral. The man glared. He was pale - almost as pale as Hank, who spent a majority of his time below deck - but his skin looked rough; one quick glance at his hands revealed knuckles that had been scarred over from fighting. He was dressed like a civilian, pale tunic nearly translucent from the ocean water, and leather breeches soft and worn. He had on what looked like a sturdy pair of boots though, which may have indicated that they had recently been traded.
“They were on my boat,” he gritted through clenched teeth and narrowed eyes. Darwin quirked an eyebrow in response, beginning to circle the man slowly.
“And that boat. You got a license to be out here, young sir?”
“Like I said, all my papers were on the boat.” Hank looked out into the water and saw that although it had seemed to take no damage, the mass of metal that the man claimed was a boat was sinking.
“That’s…unfortunate,” Darwin said civilly. “Name?”
He glared for a little while longer, sun beating down on him and the ship’s crew, until Janos shifted beside him, his hand inching again towards his pistol. Finally, he relented. “Alex Summers. Mid-Atlantic Islands, district P-061.”
“And what were you doing out by the Southern Islands, Mr. Summers, so far from home?”
Alex paused before answering with heavy truthfulness. “Fishing.” Stunned, Darwin barked out a laugh. It was at that moment that Hank noticed, barely discernable beneath the tunic, on Alex’s skin under his right collar bone, a dark, inky shape. Someone else noticed it, too.
“He’s been marked!” came a cry from the crew.
Instantly there was a flurry of action. Janos, closest to Alex, quickly latched onto the newcomer’s hands, bringing them behind his back in an efficient lock. Pistols appeared in the hands of the crew. Darwin stepped into Alex’s space while he struggled against his bonds, and he unceremoniously yanked the tunic open at the collar. “I have a right to privacy!” Alex insisted, indignant.
“I have a right to protect this ship,” Darwin countered, still calm. He prodded at the pale, wet skin of Alex’s collarbone, his own finger dark against the flesh. Alex hissed like he’d been burned. “Still fresh,” Darwin murmured. “Saltwater probably not helping things, huh. You a Mage, Mr. Summers? What kind? Don’t seem to be a dangerous one, at least.”
It was true; all Mages were marked where Alex was, the intricacies of the ink somehow a code for the type of magic user they were. The only symbols that many bothered learning were the trident - water magic - and the star - fire magic. These types of magic users were dangerous, especially at sea. Alex had the universal banded circle containing the individual Mage’s registry number with his country of citizenship, and inside the band was a thick black ‘x.’ Hank tried to remember what that represented. He had never paid much attention to that unit in his courses of study. Magic was a fickle thing, not reliable or falsifiable like science. Its users were often pigheaded and lazy, thinking themselves to be demi-gods.
“This symbol doesn’t look familiar to me,” Darwin admitted, still prodding. Despite his calm, he was aggressive in his interrogation tactic. He scraped his fingernail lightly over the tattoo and Alex visibly buckled, grunting, and would have fallen to his knees if Janos hadn’t been holding his arms. “You did this,” Darwin continued. “Yourself.” Hank’s eyes widened at the realization as the crew whispered around them, interest piqued and struggling to remain at attention. “At ease,” Darwin said distractedly, and everyone’s stance changed. To Alex again, he asked, “What are you covering up here?”
“Nothing!” Alex protested. “They couldn’t figure me out so they gave me a big black X. Happens to a lot of Mages.”
“No,” and his voice cut through like a knife could snap a taut wire. “You did this. Or had someone help you do it. That’s destruction of government property, there. Tampering with citizen records. I could throw you to the sharks and that would be a mercy compared to what The General of the United Islands would sentence you to. You are familiar with his stance on magic users, I presume?”
“Hah!” Alex cried, wild. “Ha, ha, ha. You’re full of shit.”
Darwin’s demeanor changed at the foul language, energy crackling around him suddenly, fierce. “All right.” He nodded to Janos. “Mr. Quested, please put Mr. Summers back where you found him.”
“Aye,” the man grunted, easily hauling Alex over his shoulder and turning to face the water as the blonde flailed.
“You’re not serious,” he said, then quickly amended it to: “Oh, Poseidon, you’re serious. You can’t just throw me back out there! You sank my brother’s boat! Okay. Okay, fine! I’m a Seer, all right? Put me down, on deck! I can see the future! I crossed out the Eye.”
Darwin held up a hand. Janos stopped. Unfortunately, he stopped mid-throw, and by then Alex was already halfway to the sea. His meeting the sea was marked by a loud splash. “Quested!” Darwin admonished. “I didn’t actually want you to throw him over!”
Janos shrugged. “Shall I get him again?”
Some crew members peered over the side of the ship. One brave individual commented, “He’s a fair swimmer, sir. Already holding onto to a cable. I think he’s angry.”
Hank looked, and Alex was indeed giving them a very rude gesture with his right hand.
“Pull him up,” Darwin said, already dismissive. “I will notify the Captain of our new crew member. Meanwhile, where is there most need of assistance on this ship? Ah.” His gaze fell on Hank, who simultaneously shrank and snapped to attention. “Lieutenant McCoy. You’re all by yourself down in the bowels of this ship, trying to figure out for us where to go next. I think you could use some company. Mr. Summers will assist you in your…navigation duties.”
Hank resisted the urge to groan and stamp his feet in frustration. He liked to work alone. The only reason he had come above was because Captain Lensherr had required him to spend at least one hour a day in open air. It was written into his contract. He much preferred the cool steel bowels of the ship, where his maps and charts were safe from ocean spray, where he could tinker with his gadgets in peace. Lately, he had been working on a compass that would not point North, but toward the nearest landmass. Darwin asked, “What say you?” only it wasn’t really a question, coming from the second-in-command. Hank said, “Aye,” with a brief nod.
They dragged Alex back over the side of the ship, this time looking that much worse for the wear after taking a second dunking. He sneezed once and then was wracked with uncontrollable shivering. “Take him below,” Darwin ordered over his shoulder as he walked toward the entrance to the captain’s quarters, the crew members parting before him like the story Hank remembered about Moses and the Red Sea. “Get him some dry clothes. Then, put him to work.”
That was how Hank McCoy gained an assistant-in-title, because in practice Alex hardly ever assisted him in anything from then on, except to assist him into stealing a military speedship, or into being captured by pirates, or into discovering the magic deep within himself. Those stories, however, are for later times, because this story was about the first meeting of Hank McCoy and Alex Summers.
“Mr. Summers,” Hank said formally, extending a hand. Alex’s hand was cold in his own, the mark against his pale skin at his collar vivid. “You have been invited to work with me in the navigation department, and you will do so, or there will be consequences. Everyone on this ship works and pulls their own weight. You may call me Lieutenant McCoy.”
“McCoy, huh?” Alex asked, flippant. He blew a stray piece of hair away from his face, only for it to fall back in place.
“Lieutenant McCoy.” He gripped Alex’s hand more tightly.
“Lieutenant McCoy,” the blonde said, voice dripping of honey. “You can call me whatever you want.” Hank raised an eyebrow. “Though I prefer Alex.”
They dropped hands, Hank’s burning though Alex’s fingers had been so cold.
-endstory.
Rating PG for now
Summary The HSS Cerebro picks up some unexpected cargo in the form of Alex Summers and Hank is Not Amused. Oceanpunk 'verse.
Disclaimer Will never own, boo.
To Hank, the ocean stretched uninterrupted as far as the eye could see, and then some. Unfortunately, his glasses were broken in one lens and so there was some fuzzy back-and-forth image-jumping going on and he wasn’t able to see that far, actually, but thankfully, that was what telescopes and binoculars were for. Hank was a practical sort of young man. On his person he always carried a spyglass, a pen and notebook full of diagrams and formulae, a dagger stuffed into his right boot, a pistol in a holster at his waist, a compass, and a picture of his mother in a pocket watch in his chest pocket. This picture was not practical, but sentimental; he hadn’t seen his mother in two years, not since he joined the crew as the navigational scientist of HSS Cerebro, captained by Erik Lensherr, who had led the fleet responsible for the detainment and arrest of one Sebastian Shaw, traitor to The United Islands of America.
That had all been well and good, Hank supposed, but it seemed that the capture of Shaw would be the pinnacle of Captain Lensherr’s nautical career, as for the past year-and-a-half he had led his crew on a wild chase around the seven seas for a lost British royal named Charles Xavier who must have been very important or else very imaginary, because there was no sign of him anywhere in history and all the captain ever had to go on was some vague niggling feeling in his gut, until some anonymous note or sign would appear to him and they’d be high-tailing it to the other end of the ocean. Six months into the search, the Brits and the Islands both had called it a dead-end and had given up, but for some reason the funds had kept coming in to keep the HSS Cerebro afloat and on the chase.
“Land, ho!” came the call from Sean, their lookout, who had a pair of his own binoculars pressed up against his eyes. “Hey, hey! What is that?” Hank glanced up at him sharply and followed the young redheaded man’s line of sight. It would be too late to cut the engines or drop the sails, or even to bank to the port or starboard sides. Whatever it was had seemingly popped into existence right in the ship’s path, floating serenely on the deep blue of the sea. It looked to be a huge mass of metal, so, actually it had probably been there for a while. It was slightly raft-shaped, but with some sort of belly underwater. Hank reasoned that the reflective properties of the metal had camouflaged it a bit from their view, to its detriment. Then he reasoned that it was indeed made of a very dense and pure metal, as their ship crashed into it headlong and it refrained from breaking into pieces but did bob and tumble and scratch the starboard side. The HSS Cerebro gave a mighty shudder but continued along its path, and Hank was glad that no one had woken the captain for this, until Sean again shouted, “Ho!” with a point of his finger. He said, “Man overboard!” That was when the engine was shut off and they began to coast, dropping anchor.
And that certainly got the crew moving. It went against every credo that young seafarers had ever been taught, the most important of which was: Leave no man behind. Chief Mate Darwin appeared at Hank’s side, leaning far over the edge of the ship, the crispness of his navy uniform creating sharp lines against the horizon. Hank looked at Darwin’s uniform enviously. Compared to the chief mate’s, Hank’s was dusty and faded, more grey than navy - he would have to talk to the Chief Steward, MacTaggart. He shuddered at the thought of complaining to Moira MacTaggart, who ran stock and inventory. If she didn’t like the nature of his complaint, he could be facing a week of tasteless, lumpy gruel.
Their seaman had jumped into the water by now. Hank watched as he swam with powerful strokes, floater over his shoulder, towards a blonde head in the water. When Janos, their seaman, reached the body, Hank stared, fascinated, as the blonde headed man raised a fist and slugged Janos right on his olive-toned cheek. This was followed by a brief tussle in which Janos may have ducked the other man’s head under water a few times too many, because when they both surfaced and Janos had dragged them over to the small boat that the crew had lowered to the sea in order to haul the two men back up onto the ship, the other guy was spitting mad, coughing up water even as they pulled the lever to raise the boat. Janos clambered onto deck and the man, wet and shivering, fell onto it. “-and I’ll sick the Kraken on you and your families! Oh, Poseidon and Neptune, Scott’s going to kill me,” he was ranting, somehow rolling up into standing. His stance was belligerent, and the crew took an involuntary step back as they, as one, reached for their pistols. The crew again moved as one to attention, booted heels clicking, when Darwin stepped forward towards their newest passenger.
“Citizen papers?” Darwin asked, tone neutral. The man glared. He was pale - almost as pale as Hank, who spent a majority of his time below deck - but his skin looked rough; one quick glance at his hands revealed knuckles that had been scarred over from fighting. He was dressed like a civilian, pale tunic nearly translucent from the ocean water, and leather breeches soft and worn. He had on what looked like a sturdy pair of boots though, which may have indicated that they had recently been traded.
“They were on my boat,” he gritted through clenched teeth and narrowed eyes. Darwin quirked an eyebrow in response, beginning to circle the man slowly.
“And that boat. You got a license to be out here, young sir?”
“Like I said, all my papers were on the boat.” Hank looked out into the water and saw that although it had seemed to take no damage, the mass of metal that the man claimed was a boat was sinking.
“That’s…unfortunate,” Darwin said civilly. “Name?”
He glared for a little while longer, sun beating down on him and the ship’s crew, until Janos shifted beside him, his hand inching again towards his pistol. Finally, he relented. “Alex Summers. Mid-Atlantic Islands, district P-061.”
“And what were you doing out by the Southern Islands, Mr. Summers, so far from home?”
Alex paused before answering with heavy truthfulness. “Fishing.” Stunned, Darwin barked out a laugh. It was at that moment that Hank noticed, barely discernable beneath the tunic, on Alex’s skin under his right collar bone, a dark, inky shape. Someone else noticed it, too.
“He’s been marked!” came a cry from the crew.
Instantly there was a flurry of action. Janos, closest to Alex, quickly latched onto the newcomer’s hands, bringing them behind his back in an efficient lock. Pistols appeared in the hands of the crew. Darwin stepped into Alex’s space while he struggled against his bonds, and he unceremoniously yanked the tunic open at the collar. “I have a right to privacy!” Alex insisted, indignant.
“I have a right to protect this ship,” Darwin countered, still calm. He prodded at the pale, wet skin of Alex’s collarbone, his own finger dark against the flesh. Alex hissed like he’d been burned. “Still fresh,” Darwin murmured. “Saltwater probably not helping things, huh. You a Mage, Mr. Summers? What kind? Don’t seem to be a dangerous one, at least.”
It was true; all Mages were marked where Alex was, the intricacies of the ink somehow a code for the type of magic user they were. The only symbols that many bothered learning were the trident - water magic - and the star - fire magic. These types of magic users were dangerous, especially at sea. Alex had the universal banded circle containing the individual Mage’s registry number with his country of citizenship, and inside the band was a thick black ‘x.’ Hank tried to remember what that represented. He had never paid much attention to that unit in his courses of study. Magic was a fickle thing, not reliable or falsifiable like science. Its users were often pigheaded and lazy, thinking themselves to be demi-gods.
“This symbol doesn’t look familiar to me,” Darwin admitted, still prodding. Despite his calm, he was aggressive in his interrogation tactic. He scraped his fingernail lightly over the tattoo and Alex visibly buckled, grunting, and would have fallen to his knees if Janos hadn’t been holding his arms. “You did this,” Darwin continued. “Yourself.” Hank’s eyes widened at the realization as the crew whispered around them, interest piqued and struggling to remain at attention. “At ease,” Darwin said distractedly, and everyone’s stance changed. To Alex again, he asked, “What are you covering up here?”
“Nothing!” Alex protested. “They couldn’t figure me out so they gave me a big black X. Happens to a lot of Mages.”
“No,” and his voice cut through like a knife could snap a taut wire. “You did this. Or had someone help you do it. That’s destruction of government property, there. Tampering with citizen records. I could throw you to the sharks and that would be a mercy compared to what The General of the United Islands would sentence you to. You are familiar with his stance on magic users, I presume?”
“Hah!” Alex cried, wild. “Ha, ha, ha. You’re full of shit.”
Darwin’s demeanor changed at the foul language, energy crackling around him suddenly, fierce. “All right.” He nodded to Janos. “Mr. Quested, please put Mr. Summers back where you found him.”
“Aye,” the man grunted, easily hauling Alex over his shoulder and turning to face the water as the blonde flailed.
“You’re not serious,” he said, then quickly amended it to: “Oh, Poseidon, you’re serious. You can’t just throw me back out there! You sank my brother’s boat! Okay. Okay, fine! I’m a Seer, all right? Put me down, on deck! I can see the future! I crossed out the Eye.”
Darwin held up a hand. Janos stopped. Unfortunately, he stopped mid-throw, and by then Alex was already halfway to the sea. His meeting the sea was marked by a loud splash. “Quested!” Darwin admonished. “I didn’t actually want you to throw him over!”
Janos shrugged. “Shall I get him again?”
Some crew members peered over the side of the ship. One brave individual commented, “He’s a fair swimmer, sir. Already holding onto to a cable. I think he’s angry.”
Hank looked, and Alex was indeed giving them a very rude gesture with his right hand.
“Pull him up,” Darwin said, already dismissive. “I will notify the Captain of our new crew member. Meanwhile, where is there most need of assistance on this ship? Ah.” His gaze fell on Hank, who simultaneously shrank and snapped to attention. “Lieutenant McCoy. You’re all by yourself down in the bowels of this ship, trying to figure out for us where to go next. I think you could use some company. Mr. Summers will assist you in your…navigation duties.”
Hank resisted the urge to groan and stamp his feet in frustration. He liked to work alone. The only reason he had come above was because Captain Lensherr had required him to spend at least one hour a day in open air. It was written into his contract. He much preferred the cool steel bowels of the ship, where his maps and charts were safe from ocean spray, where he could tinker with his gadgets in peace. Lately, he had been working on a compass that would not point North, but toward the nearest landmass. Darwin asked, “What say you?” only it wasn’t really a question, coming from the second-in-command. Hank said, “Aye,” with a brief nod.
They dragged Alex back over the side of the ship, this time looking that much worse for the wear after taking a second dunking. He sneezed once and then was wracked with uncontrollable shivering. “Take him below,” Darwin ordered over his shoulder as he walked toward the entrance to the captain’s quarters, the crew members parting before him like the story Hank remembered about Moses and the Red Sea. “Get him some dry clothes. Then, put him to work.”
That was how Hank McCoy gained an assistant-in-title, because in practice Alex hardly ever assisted him in anything from then on, except to assist him into stealing a military speedship, or into being captured by pirates, or into discovering the magic deep within himself. Those stories, however, are for later times, because this story was about the first meeting of Hank McCoy and Alex Summers.
“Mr. Summers,” Hank said formally, extending a hand. Alex’s hand was cold in his own, the mark against his pale skin at his collar vivid. “You have been invited to work with me in the navigation department, and you will do so, or there will be consequences. Everyone on this ship works and pulls their own weight. You may call me Lieutenant McCoy.”
“McCoy, huh?” Alex asked, flippant. He blew a stray piece of hair away from his face, only for it to fall back in place.
“Lieutenant McCoy.” He gripped Alex’s hand more tightly.
“Lieutenant McCoy,” the blonde said, voice dripping of honey. “You can call me whatever you want.” Hank raised an eyebrow. “Though I prefer Alex.”
They dropped hands, Hank’s burning though Alex’s fingers had been so cold.
-endstory.