Nov 27th, 2033
As Richard hauled his two duffel bags up the ship's steep gangplank, the downpour was relentless, drenching and darkening his path. The oil tanker, rid of its weighty cargo, floated high above the water's surface. Atop its towering mast, Magnus's flag fluttered proudly, its emblem illuminated against the night—an unmistakable signal that the vessel sailed under the protection of Perfectland. Pirates, well aware of this emblem, understood the dire consequences of an assault: facing the full, unforgiving fury of Perfectland's retaliation.
Despite the ship's emptiness, suggested by its high ride, and its relatively small size, these factors, paradoxically, diminished the likelihood of an unwanted encounter. An imposing feature typically adorned the deck of such vessels, a prominent bomb with a tacit declaration to all would-be attackers: "We will sacrifice the ship rather than surrender it." Though merely a dummy, the deterrent on this particular tanker carried a silent confirmation of Richard's importance—the clear intent that he must reach his destination unscathed.
Richard was in the dark about the particulars of the cargo that had once filled the tanker's belly—the very assets traded away for a non-negotiable slice of his future. But this kind of transaction bore the hallmark of his father's shrewd bargaining: the art of exchanging what one was inclined to part with for something of greater desire. And while his father had no intention of discarding him, there was something of strategic value in positioning his son at the epicenter of what he envisioned as the great resurgence. His departure was less about sending Richard away and more about ensuring he was precisely where he needed to be for the dawn of a new era.
Reaching the top of the gangplank with no welcome party to greet him and no signs directing him, Richard, feeling rather abandoned, hastened to the refuge of the first doorway glowing with light and settled himself onto a nearby bench.
He removed the Lopapeysa hat, which to him was an unsightly piece of knitwear. Yet, because Freya had crafted it with such care and affection over the past week, he had donned it without complaint, at least in her presence. Despite its incomplete treatment—lacking the usual steeping in whale oil or fat that made it resilient to the elements—the hat had been thoroughly soaked but had admirably shielded him from the harsh weather when he most needed protection.
Years of conditioning allowed Richard's heart to swiftly compartmentalize his feelings for Freya, pushing thoughts of her to the periphery. He was accustomed to continually setting his sights forward, as had been instilled in him from a young age. The practice of pressing on without looking back was deeply ingrained. And so, when someone did eventually appear to escort him to his destined location, the forgotten hat lingered on the bench, a silent testimony to a chapter closed and another just beginning.
"I'm Narre," said his guide with a slow, thick Scandinavian accent—English, but just on the cusp of what Richard could readily understand. The man was of average build and less muscular than Richard had anticipated. Like nearly all the Danes he had encountered in the seaports within the red zone, Narre's hair was strikingly blonde.
"Richard," he replied, out of ritual, though he felt it was stating the obvious.
They moved at a swift pace, navigating down endless corridors and stairwells, descending deeper into the bowels of the ship. Richard found his breath shortening with the effort, so their conversation remained sparse.
"If you need anything, there's an intercom in your room, by the bed. It connects right to my earpiece. Most of the crew don't speak English, so I'm your liaison for whatever you need," Narre explained, his tone tinged with either happiness or perhaps pride in this role.
As Richard's legs began to cramp from the onslaught of stairs, they finally arrived at a well-concealed sliding wall, behind which was a ladder descending around three meters. At the ladder's base, one final corridor stretched before them. At the end, Narre unlocked the sole door and handed Richard the key.
"I'm just a buzz away, 24 hours a day," he said before departing.
There tucked away in the base of the fuel tank was a surprisingly lavish room, one that Richard conjectured Magnus St. Sere might have anticipated using himself. This hidden sanctuary consisted of one expansive space paired with an adjoining bathroom. Central to the room was a king-sized bed, dressed with extraordinarily soft, tangerine-hued sheets and a light yet insulating comforter, surrounded by an excessive array of pillows in various dimensions.
Flanking the bed were two hardwood nightstands, each crowned with an ornate lamp; their bulbs emitted a peculiar glow that Richard couldn't quite place. The nightstands were adorned with what appeared to be the motif of an eagle, or possibly a hawk, their details meticulously carved. However, the lamplight flickered sporadically—onboard electricity was notoriously fickle.
A generous desk sat in the corner, a considerable distance from both the comfort of the bed and the practicality of the bathroom. It was here that Richard proceeded to unpack one of his duffel bags, spilling out a wealth of paperwork his father had thrust upon him at the last imaginable moment. The documents, collated into seven distinct folders, initially seemed as though they might all pertain to Langford or exclusively to Magnus. To his surprise, he discovered each folder represented a different global location. Now faced with three weeks, possibly a month of sailing ahead, he acknowledged that delving into these dossiers would likely become his main occupation—an enforced study session on the high seas with little else to distract.
The presence of three chairs at the table, despite there being four sides readily accessible, puzzled Richard, inciting his penchant for solving riddles and mysteries. The enigma of the missing chair or the reason behind only three, or even two, chairs tugged at his thoughts intermittently, a riddle that remained unsolved. Regardless of his analytical inclinations, the answer continued to elude him, leaving an inexplicable void at the otherwise well-appointed table.
Magnus’s penchant for blood red suffused every inch of Richard's quarters, sparing only a pair of paintings from its domineering presence. The color, garish in Richard’s eyes, assaulted his senses, an impenetrable sea of crimson that threatened to induce a sense of vertigo. It took shape as more than a mere choice of decor; it was a relentless invasion that left a disquieting mark on his psyche, stirring waves of nausea that rose and ebbed with little warning.
Amidst this sea of red, Richard faced the mountain of paperwork that loomed before him. Fully aware there was a limit to the number of pages one could digest before the words started to blur, he understood professionalism wasn't about racing through the task but absorbing its nuances. Seeking diversion became a necessity—his mind craved variety and relief.
A structured plan crystallized in Richard’s mind: three separate three-hour segments for studying, an indulgence of seven hours for sleep, and the remaining divided slivers of the day set aside for alternative pursuits. This organization offered an anchor amidst the chaotic overtones of his crimson prison.
After programming his day, Richard tested the intercom, requesting dinner. To his surprise, a swift-footed Narre arrived not long after, bearing gifts of sustenance: seaweed-vine and a bounteous bowl of plump, deep blue grapes. Despite the burdens of isolation, the sweetness of the fruit—a stark rarity in the realms of Iceland—momentarily transported Richard back to a time where such treasures were less esteemed. A pitcher of water with a reassuringly low center of gravity accompanied the fare, reinforcing the meal's thoughtful design. Satiated yet reflective, Richard considered how the vine’s briny tang had long overstayed its welcome on his tongue.
Satisfied by the meal and drained from the day's exertions, Richard jotted down his notes for Narre, the mirage of control buoying him in his need for assistance. With each item checked off, he gratefully lowered himself onto the bed, feeling the soft contours of the memory foam as it enveloped his body. The gentle swaying motion of the ship lull him back and forth, draped in a cocoon of white noise provided by the engines' thrumming. With each passing moment, Richard sank deeper into a welcome abyss of slumber, ushered by the undulating lullaby towards a world filled with peaceful dreams. As a final nod to Freya, Richard gathered several larger pillows and nestled them against his back, the weight of them serving as a reassuring familiar pressure that comforted and eased his mind and spirit.