The Collected Stories of Dart Bishop After the Fall of Bravo

I'm going to start collecting the little stories/RP summaries I've been writing up here, mostly so I have them all in one place, but I guess also in case you want to read them? Chronology is a little wishy washy at this point, but I'll get it figured out. Let me know if you have a cool idea for a scene together, whether you want to soft RP, give me some details for a story, or include my character in a story you are writing.

[Year 1: May] It was late, and the distant shouting had quieted, though he could still hear the occasional crash of falling rubble from what had once been his home. Most of the refugees had gone to sleep or moved on, eager to start the next chapters of their stories, or at least leave this one a little farther behind. Still, Dart lingered. Slink, Ash, Hammers and Wandering Eye sat around him, the mug of terlet hooch he'd passed around empty. It wasn't a group he could have foreseen spending his last minutes on the edge of Bravo with, but it was good to not be alone, and as Slink's notes smouldered on the ground between them, the scent of burning paper reminded him of summer, of cinders and Feonixes and ash and rebirth. But mostly it reminded him that the past was just that--the past.

"Well, I can't sit here forever," said Dart. He got up, a little unsteadily, and looked toward the road ahead.

"Go find a boat," said Wandering Eye. "Set sail somewhere."

"Gotta learn to sail it first," said Dart with a laugh. He stumbled a few yards into the darkness, nothing but a bag slung over his back and a knife at his side, just like he'd walked into Bravo five years before. Only that time, he'd been ready to watch the town crumble, and this time, he'd give anything just to see it again. He paused next to the BFG caravan. He was really too drunk and beat up to walk anywhere alone right now. Without alerting anyone else, he crawled into the ruins of the White Pearl tied down to the back, the same fishing boat Scuttle had let him sail for a moment at the end of the world. He curled up inside it, using his flag as a blanket, and as soon as he shut his eyes, the tears began to leak down his cheeks. For Remi. For Eddie. Hell, for Creed, even. For his hard-won, short-lived council seat. For the still in the corner of Kiva. For the worn bartop in the saloon. For his old bunk in wikiup. For the little shells on the shore of the back path to the lake. He'd picked up a small, white stone just before he hopped aboard his caravan. It was the only piece of Bravo he had left. Of the city, anyway. He knew Bravo was a people, and he was trying hard to see today as a ship sailing away from a burning harbor, not sinking, but it was hard. It wasn't fair. None of this was fair.

Tomorrow would be a new day. A new story. Tomorrow he'd stand up again. But for tonight, at least, he let himself mourn.

***

D'Artagnan walked into the common room of the inn where Porthos had promised he'd be waiting. Sure enough, there he was in the corner, two glasses in front of him. Dart skipped toward him and slid into the seat next to him. They embraced like they thought they might never see each other again, although they never would have admitted they were afraid of anything like that.

"I missed you, husband," said Porthos.

"I missed you too," said Dart, trying to keep the tears out of his voice.

"What now?" said Porthos, between kisses.

Dark laughed bleakly. "You distract me from the fact that my home's been reduced to rubble?"

Porthos kissed him again. "That's impossible. This is your home. The road is already made of rubble."

Dart smiled a little. Porthos was right. The world was big and wide and full of adventure, and there was nothing tying him down anymore.

"Then I guess we make some new stories worth telling."

"To living dangerously," said Porthos, their mugs clicking together like a take board.

[Year 1, May] Dart stared at the fingernails on his left hand as Porthos packed for Crystal Creek. The black paint on his thumb was starting to chip away, revealing the silver underneath. He supposed he should repaint it. Hell, technically, he supposed he should fill in the others now that so many had fallen, at least as far as he knew. The Bravo lineage league, Robb, Creed--if he even still counted after their last talk. He only had one silver left. The Captain.

He swallowed, remembering his early days in Bravo, the spying, the manipulation, the reports back to Hook incriminating the people he pretended to befriend. He'd even lied to the ones who joined his side. He thought back to those early days with Cap, finding out who she was by pretending to be just another remnant lost in the world, then putting on Violet Victoria's purple makeup and grey skirt and using it all to trick her into joining a crew she would have despised.

He still had the envelope of ashes in his bag that she'd given to him. They were just from a blank sheet of paper that he'd burned, but he'd put on Violet's face and given them to her with the story that they were his own slavery contracts, burned to ash by Captain Kingston. He'd figured it would be a nice feel-good moment for the sainthood to hand the envelope back to him when he was back in his old clothes, and it would wrap up the lies he'd told to test Caution's worth nicely. He'd come to Bravo saying he was a slave to see if his "mentor" would have the guts to set him free, but in reality his Captain had freed him years before. He'd always hated loose ends.

He still did. But if he was true to his new script, that last finger was going to stay silver forever. He could replace its target, he supposed. He'd replaced Max. But the worthiest foe he could think of to add to his list was himself, and there wasn't any solid victory there. He'd tried that already while he was fractured into Dart and Nat from the sunless garden.

"How do I know if he's really gone?" he'd asked Adler tearfully as Nathaniel Whitesparrow's voice quieted after their headshrinking session.

"He never will be," she'd told him. The voices were gone. No one was pulling his strings. His fractured mind was healed. But she was right. He knew she was right. "He will always be a part of you, and you will always have to make a choice of who you want to be when you reach a crossroads."

"Well, I'm choosing to be D'Artagnan this time at least, which is more than I did before," he said, but his mind was drifting back to a scene from his past, him, standing at attention in Violet's clothes, his Captain sitting on a bench surrounded by a few concerned onlookers. He'd just had surgery to cure a case of multiple personality disorder he'd come back from the gravemind with after his murder at the hands of Tink.

"Who are you now?" a rover asked. "Peter Webber or Captain Kingston?"

His Captain's brow had furrowed. "Some combination of both, I suppose. I remember Peter, and he did admirable things, but I still have work left to do."

Dart laughed bitterly at the memory. "This is all really funny if you know the whole story," he said, but didnt elaborate to Adler. He supposed, just as his fractured personality had sought to get rid of the real him through psychology or gravemind bullshit, he'd hoped for some magical solution that would put his darker tendencies to rest for good. He was cured, and his name was D'Artagnan, but Nathaniel Whitesparrow wasn't dead.

That had become increasingly clear when Elk took him to talk to Hart. Although in honesty he wasn't sure of he could blame the string of insults and comebacks and challenges that had come out of his mouth on his pirate past, or on the fact that anger was easier than grief. It was easier than fear. It was sure as fuck easier than shame.

The stupid thing was, he wasn't even mad at Hart for the death threats or the accusations. He deserved them. He didn't even give a shit about killing him--he'd prefer not to, even.

"Why am I such an ASSHOLE?" He'd shouted at Nike as they walked away. "Why can't I just turn it OFF?"

Nike had just laughed. What else was there to do?

Truth was, he was mad because all he wanted to do was obliterate that part of his past as thoroughly as Robb had obliterated Bravo, and instead Hart had left him with a fucking cliff hangar: If you come back to Crystal Creek, I'll kill you. Dart had no intention of going back to the creek. But he wanted this to be over, and he'd missed any chance he had to settle things the Bravo way. Hart had made it clear that a duel was off the table.

Of course, there was still one way to end it. He thought back to that last letter he'd left with Treasure. He'd always hated loose ends. And maybe that was what Captain Whitesparrow needed to stay gone, and sooner rather than later. One final scene. A closing curtain. The mutineer's death he deserved.

Dart's face hardened, and he clenched his shining nails into a fist. "I'm coming with you, Porthos."

"Like Hell you are."

"You can't tell me what to do, old man!" Dart grabbed his bag and stubbornly shoved the two things he'd unpacked into it. All his worldly posessions, he realized with a pang. "Don't worry. It isn't about Hook."

Porthos sighed. "I can't tell you what to do. But I can plead with you not to."

"Well, don't." Dart lit up a cigarette and stalked a few yards away from their camp, staring out into the trees. "He'll come back," he could hear Hart saying with a sneer. "It's too good of TV not to." He paused between breaths and looked down at the cigarette resting between his silver nails. A pit of doubt started to grow in his stomach, but he chased it away with another drag.

Unfortunately, that got him thinking about the ripped letter Hart had handed him. The one he'd never sent. The first crack in his rebel facade. The one he'd given to Trench as insurance that he'd never make the same mistake again and get away with it. He was pissed at Trench for handing it over without the propper explanation, but he knew he had no room to lay blame. He remembered the talk with Rhoades that proceeded it. The plan to kill Hook quietly in the woods. To never tell the story of his end. It had been the moment that Nat's resolve had started to break. Hook was a danger that needed to be eradicated. But no one deserved that, certainly not his Captain...

He was gonna need more than the tobacco tonight. He grabbed a flask out of his bag and took a swig.

***

Porthos found him sprawled in the splintering remains of the White Pearl early in the morning, drunk and aiming a paint brush at his middle finger nail with one eye closed. His hands were stained with ink, and his boots were muddy from that late night walk to the post office.

"Watcha doing?" said Porthos, genuinely curious.

"Not coming with you, that's for sure," Dart slurred. "That's just what that overdramatic Whitesparrow fuck would want. One last chance in the spotlight. Some big dramatic death that people would tell stories about for years. And he'd be smug as fuck that he took one of my infection too."

"Yeah, but who would tell stories about him anyway?" said Porthos. "I mean, the D'Artagnan is almost as famous as the Porthos, but I bet no one would even vote for Whitesparrow for council."

"Nope, and good thing too because he's already dead. Hung himself on a loose end or something."

"And good riddance. He was so whiney." Porthos said without missing a beat. "And boring. And needy. And he had no sense of style. And..."

Dart gave Porthos a look and cut him off. "Anyway, let's stop talking about him. He doesn't deserve it."

"Talking about who?"

"Exactly." He finished painting the last of his silvers black, then tossed the bottle of paint into the woods. "Besides, Hart doesn't know me. He's EXPECTING me to go back to the Creek, but I'm not that fucking predictable. New programming from now on! No more reruns!" He threw a fist into the air.

Porthos laughed and handed him another two bottles of hooch. "Here, protect these until I get back."

"I'll try, but no promises," said Dart as he read the labels. "I hear there's no laws to keep red stars from stealing your hooch out here."

Porthos locked eyes with Dart and grabbed his shoulder. "If the comunists come for them, you have to drink them as fast as possible, D'Artagnan. We can't let them fall into the wrong hands!"

Dart laughed, then leaned against Porthos' arm. "Come back soon."

"I will." Porthos squeezed his shoulder and straightened up to prepare for the journey.

Dart's eyelids drooped as he watched his husband move through the camp. He was tired, and the grief of the past weekend was still close, but things were going to be okay, he told himself. You could always count on a liar to lie, the scriptures taught him. But for once, he was pretty sure he was telling himself the truth.

[Year 1: ?]

The little band of pirates had been plaguing the river trade near BFG's camp for weeks, and now, thanks to Guapo's clever infiltration of the group, Scarecrow and Dart knew exactly where their secret base was.

"Ready?" said Scarecrow, shifting his shield on his arm. They were hiding in the shadow of the pirate boat, docked next to a mostly ruined bunk house.

Guapo nodded.

"Let's do it," said Dart. He melted into the shadows and skirted around to a flanking position with Guapo while Scarecrow went in from the front, drawing them out of their hideout.

"Look! Another pureblood! Maybe someone will actually pay out for him!" one of the "pirates" called to his friends, gesturing at Scarecrow. The guy didn't even have a decent hat.

Scarecrow stared down the guy and his buddies as they approached. Dart waited for the pirates to have their backs to him, then leapt out of the shadows and clocked one in the back of the head.

"Engaurd!" Dart shouted.

"The fuck?" The blinded pirate muttered as Guapo knocked him to the ground and Scarecrow took on two of his friends like it was nothing.

They made short work of the pirates, if you could even call them that. From the stories Dart had heard, they had no code of honor, no greater cause. They didn't even have a flag. As far as he was concerned, they were just bandits with a boat.

Dart left the final blows to his friends. He wouldn't shed any tears for dead bandits, but he'd never been fond of the dirty work his former captain had trained him for. He kicked in the door to the hideout and started looking for stragglers and loot. What he found were hostages.

"We got people tied up in here!" Dart called. Moments later, his friends were inside the building, untying binds, offering the prisoners what comforts they had on them.

"They were holding us for ransom. No one was paying. I don't know what they would have done with us if you hadn't come along." The words Dart overheard spoken to Scarecrow should have pulled at his heart strings, but instead his first instinct was panic, which quickly smoldered into anger. Leopold. It had been so many years since he'd heard that voice. But he'd never forget it.

Dart cut the binds tied around the wrists of the rover in front of him, then strode to Scarecrow. "I'd like a word with him. Can you get the others out of here? They've had a hard enough time of it."

Scarecrow gave him a funny look, but backed off.

"Everything okay?" Guapo stopped digging through the chest in the corner for a second.

"Everything's fine," said Dart with a dangerous smile. "The signal provides."

He stepped in front of the captive, a pureblood man in burgundy, black and gold who looked up at him in confusion. "What's wrong? Why have you stopped untying us?"

"Why don't you tell me, Dad?" said Dart.

The man squinted up at him. For fucks sake, did he not even recognize him? Dart angled his head so that his right cheek faced his father. The man's eyes widened as he took in the "1" that he'd inked on Dart's face 16 years prior.

"Little one..." he said in disbelief.

Dart swung his dagger hard enough to leave his father choking on his own breath.

"Don't you EVER call me that again," he shouted. "I've been a lot of things in my day. An entrepreneur. An activist. A Captain. A privateer. A war hero. A Fenix. A spouse. A gad damn councilman. But I've never been a number."

His father fought for breath in front of him.

"Don't bother apologizing," said Dart. "All I want to know from you is where mom is."

"Dead," his father finally sputtered. "She died years ago. Got sick, and never got better."

Dart held back tears. He'd said goodbye to her in his heart already, but finally knowing the end of her story hurt like dislodging a bullet from a wound.

"I'm sorry, li..." The man caught himself at the last moment and bit his lip instead of saying the old pet name, but it wasn't enough. Dart's face hardened again.

"You know what?" Dart adjusted his black hat. "Say my name."

"What?"

"Call me by my name for once in your life, and I'll let you go free. No strings attached."

Leopold let out a sharp breath, fear written on his face. "Please. It's been so long. I..."

"Never bothered to learn your own son's name?"

"My wife would have never let me acknowledge you. Things were different then. Society was..."

"Shitty to the point that you raised your own bastard as a slave? Come on, Dad. Mother never called me 'one'."

"I..." Leopold squeezed his eyes shut. His mouth worked silently for a moment, though whether he was mouthing names from his past or prayers was hard to tell. Finally, his eyes shot open. "Nathaniel! Your name is Nathaniel!"

Dart smiled a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Please, Nathaniel, let me go. I'll never hurt you again. I'll never hurt anyone again. And I remembered..."

"Yeah..." Dart shrugged and ran a finger over the back of his blade. "But the joke's on you, Leopold. My name is D'Artagnan now." In a few quick strokes, he'd dropped the man to the ground and slit his throat. As he watched the life leave his eyes, he wasn't D'Artagnan anymore. He wasn't Captain Whitesparrow. He was little Nathaniel with no last name. The boy who'd cowered in broom closets after beatings and watched from doorframes as his half siblings enjoyed Clintimass dinner around a broad wood table he'd only ever wiped clean. But he wasn't afraid anymore. This dirty work, he mused, he didn't mind so much. He tore a scrap of cloth from his father's vest and cleaned his blade.

"Mind if I go through his pockets?"

Dart jumped back to the present at the sound of Guapo's voice, close behind him. He hesitated, then laughed dryly.

"Sure, but we gotta spend anything you find on stupid bullshit," said Dart.

His father didn't have anything of value. The pirates had made sure of that. Dart slipped 2 brass into his pocket after Guapo moved on. "For the ferryman," he whispered.

The good news was, the pirates certainly weren't guarding their plunder anymore. Scarecrow suggested they split what they found in the hideout between the hostages since they were already well off enough, but Dart quietly pocketed his father's share. He deserved that much at least.

As they were sorting through brass and trinkets, Scarecrow pulled a gold-threaded scarf out of the loot. The rover's eyes lit up. "That was my grandfather's! I thought I'd lost it in the fight." Scarecrow handed it to her, and she pressed it to her face, her eyes welling up.

They escorted the survivors to the nearest trading post, but stopped to rest at the pirates' hideout on the way back. Dart found himself sitting on a boulder staring at the empty hideout, his brow furrowed.

"You okay?" Scarecrow asked in the same tone he'd used after Parker left Nat's name off the ballot.

Dart nodded once.

"You want to talk about it?"

Dart took a deep breath and let it out. "Nah, I want to steal that boat. Come on." He hopped up and strode toward the boat. Truth was, he was okay. It was just one less loose end, one less awful person in the world.

"You mean LIBERATE that boat," said Scarecrow.

"Yeah. Right. Privateer." Nat laughed and hurried forward.

They boarded the vessel without mishap, but Dart couldn't figure out the knot holding it to the dock so he cut through the ropes with a knife. The current eased them away from the shore.

"Glad one of us knows how to sail," said Guapo, looking at Dart.

"Yeah, I mean I've stolen...er...liberated... ships before," said Dart. He left out the part about how he'd been below deck bailing water while someone else held the wheel.

"You...do know how to sail, right?" said Guapo as they approached a group of pointy-looking rocks.

Scarecrow laughed.

"I mean, it can't be that hard," said Dart. "Scuttle let me steer that one time." He crossed his arms and stared at the rigging. He picked a likely-looking rope and yanked on it. With his father gone and his Captain left far behind, he truly felt like he could do anything. He lit a celebratory cigarette and prepared to sail them home.

***

Several minutes later, Dart, Scarecrow and Guapo washed up on the shore, coughing. They sat up and watched the last few feet of the boat disappear under the water.

"What impresses me," said Guapo, after a moment of silence, "is that you managed to both sink the boat and catch it on fire."

"I'll get the hang of it one day," said Dart. He tried to brush some wet sand off his pants. "Not a word to the Road Royals."

"So...let's walk back to camp?" said Scarecrow.

"We're getting sandwiches and lemon tarts first," said Dart. He jingled the coin purse he'd lifted from the pirates' stash. "Dad's buying."

"We should get foot massages too," said Scarecrow.

"Perfect," said Dart. He squeezed some river water out of his flag and hopped to his feet. He pinned the scrap of cloth from his father's vest to his bag as they walked. It was more than he deserved, but some chapters of life deserved a final curtain. And refreshments. He couldn't wait to tell Porthos who he'd run into today, but he wasn't in a hurry to get home. It was nice, for once, to walk casually away from his past instead of running from it.

[DR Timeskip Stories] As Nat and Porthos journeyed the wastes, they came across a merchant caravan traveling in the opposite direction.

"Hey, I'm going to go see if they have any decent rations or herb. I'll shout if it's a trap."

"Get something that doesn't taste like cardboard, will you?" said Porthos.

Nat hopped out of the back of the rickety boat they'd tied to the wagon frame and approached. He was in the middle of haggling with a man over the price of a basket of fresh apples when he spotted none other than Izzet Bagobolts laughing with a rover woman off behind the trade stalls.

"Ahoy! Bestie!" He waved his arm above his head, but Izzet didn't seem to hear him. He turned back to the merchant. "Hey, can you grab that guy with the goggles for me? We know each other."

"I mean, I can, but I don't know if he'll remember you."

"What do you mean?" said Dart.

"He didn't remember much when we found him."

"Well, I'm pretty memorable." He kept trying to catch Izzet's eye. "Humor me?"

A moment later, the merchant led Izzet over to him.

"Hey, Bestie!" Nat touched the brim of his hat with two fingers in a quick salute. "It's me!"

"Hey...you!" Izzet's grin was bright, but blank.

"Wow, you really don't remember me do you?" said Dart.

Izzet gave an apologetic shrug. "There's...a few holes here and there. How did we know each other?"

"Well..."

Dart thought back to the first time they met, Izzet's lip curling as he looked Nat up and down in the saloon.

"Ugh, what are you wearing?! Here's some money. Buy some new clothes!"

Nat had thrown the money back in Izzet's face, then later he'd chewed the asshole pureblood out during a deeply problematic lesson in economics. He'd been baffled when Izzet found him after a fight and declared them to be best friends, and he was still a little baffled by the peculiar mix of loathing and affection that had grown between them since then.

He'd put up with Izzet because he'd felt like a good person by comparison when they were together. Izzet had put up with him for reasons unknown. But he'd always remember the day that Izzet walked up to him, looked at his burnt tie, and earnestly offered to help him fix it instead of turning up his nose. Hell, if there's hope for Izzet to grow into a better person, maybe there's hope for me, he'd thought.

And perhaps there'd been hope for both of them all along. As Dart struggled to succinctly define their relationship, a remnant woman walked up and handed Izzet her baby. "Can you watch Kiwi for a minute, cousin? I have to find Georgie and tell him it's time for lunch."

The instinctive panic Dart felt at watching someone hand Izzet Bagobolts their child passed as the little girl cooed happily and threw her arms around Izzet's neck. He didn't even seem perturbed that he was holding a (presumably) non-psionic remnant.

"Well, we were friends." Dart ended the sentence without the usual qualifiers or grimace.

"Oh! Well would you like to eat lunch with us...friend?"

"D'Artagnan," he introduced himself. It wasn't a name that Izzet would have recognized, but that didn't matter anymore. He touched Portho's tie hanging around his neck, remembering how long he'd clung to his old, burnt one, the one his father had given him when he sold him away to a pirate crew. It was important to remember your past, he'd always explained when questioned. He still believed that, mostly, but it was even more important to embrace your future, and sometimes to do that you had to let go. You had to throw the old tie in a bonfire and watch it char into ash. You had to give up on chasing an old mentor's approval. You had to make peace with the fact that not every script tied itself up in neat little bows at the end. And maybe, sometimes, you had to forget who you were and build yourself up from mud and rocks and circumstances better than the ones that crafted you. "I appreciate the invitation, but my husband's waiting for me. We gotta make the next walled outpost by sunset. I should probably just buy these apples."

Izzet nodded. "Well, it was good seeing you?"

"Yeah. I'm really happy for you. You seem...happy!" Dart waved an awkward goodbye. "Maybe our paths will cross again. Live dangerously, friend!"

He bought the apples and turned away, but one of the merchants stopped him.

"Wait, do you know him? Who is he?"

"I'm sure you know him better than me by now," said Dart.

"No...like...does he have any family we should notify or..."

"No, absolutely not," Dart said quickly. "You're his family from the looks of it."

"But, where did he come from? What...?"

Dart put a finger too his lips, then tapped the little popcorn bucket pin on his tie. "No spoilers."

He turned on his heel and walked back to the wagon, ignoring the rest of the questions. They caravan would be muttering about TV Bullshit later, he was sure, but he didn't care. "No more reruns," he murmered under his breath, then jumped back into his boat, ready to sail away toward something new.