Clang—!
"Master Max, your dinner."
The knock on the door jolted him out of deep sleep. His eyes squinted, lips parting in a dry yawn.
Brow furrowed, his eyes wandered around in confusion.
'Where am I?'
Panic almost surged through him, but faded as his scrambled thoughts fell into place.
"Ah, right... I remember now," he muttered, rubbing the back of his head. "Transmigration to Marvel... then Pirates of the Caribbean. What a day."
Stretching out, he licked his parched lips. His throat was dry; the harsh sea climate was already taking its toll.
Max, new to all this, felt the consequences.
He reached for a nearby mug filled with grog, a crude mix of rum, water, and lime, common among sailors to keep water from spoiling.
One big gulp —
Cough—!
"What the hell is this?" he gagged.
The bitterness of the rum hit late. A tangy, acidic twist followed, leaving a strangely balanced aftertaste.
"Huh… not bad," he mumbled, sipping more slowly this time. "Now it's tolerable."
Enjoying the refreshing flavour on his palate, his throat moistened, and his lips softened immediately.
"Master Max?"
His name resounded once again behind the closed door, making him aware of his disregard, not accusatory, but in a tone laced with concern.
"Ah! Yes, Marco, come in."
The wooden door creaked open slightly, Marco peering in with a tray in his grasp, his back a bit tilted. He bowed respectfully in greeting before making himself present before Max.
His demeanour could pass him off as the ideal servant, or a loyal second-in-command.
Nodding slowly, Max took in Marco's appearance, something he'd missed in yesterday's chaos.
Clean-shaven, he wore the outfit better than most crew members. Visibly, he could've passed as a mid-ranking officer in the Royal Navy.
A worn-out tricorn leather hat crowned his head. A long but fitted coat with a dark shade of blue cloaked him.
Underneath was a billowing, loose shirt with a wide collar and puffed sleeves, confined by a perfect-fitting vest.
His knee-length breeches matched his trousers and worn leather boots, while a cutlass hung by his side, along with a pistol and a powder horn.
The contrast between each piece created a refined, military-like sharpness.
Max eyed Marco once over carefully, nodded, and acknowledged his greeting.
His eyes landed on the tray, and something clicked instantly.
He noticed the sky darkening through the curtained makeshift window in his cabin.
'I slept too long.'
Everything had happened too fast for him. In a single day, within a matter of some short hours, his head crammed with memories of two different people, it must've taken a toll on his mental health, making him seek solace in the serenity of sleep.
While Max was mulling, Marco placed the tray on the desk before him, pushing the maps and other documents aside.
He carefully spread the dishes and filled Max's mug with the beverage once again.
Max eyed the dishes, and his nose scrunched. "This again…" A mumble escaped him reflexively.
Marco stood silent, as if he already knew the cause behind it. He bowed. "Forgive me, Master. I'll ensure the best supplies are bought once we dock."
Max waved him off with a shrug. "Don't worry, Marco. That's just how these sea voyages are — cruel to the tastebuds."
He sighed and glanced at his supposed meal.
A heavily salted meat, prepared after boiling many times over in an attempt to make it easier on the palate, was laid out along with some peas and beans sprinkled with whatever spices they had on board.
And of course, the same beverage, for any semblance of taste, passed for sweet, drink, and water all at once.
"Okay, you can leave now," Max dismissed him.
Marco nodded once again and, after a slight bow, left the cabin.
"Mess call!" a loud yell echoed. The voice, recognisable as Marco's, rang out.
With those orders, the ship descended into frantic chaos. The crew moved silently as many left for dinner.
'Marco's a great first mate.'
Releasing a tired, fed-up sigh, Max swallowed his saliva, yet he wasn't satisfied with the food. Through his memories, he instinctively knew they had specially prepared these meals for him.
The rest of the crew had to make do with voyage rations, some biscuits manufactured through heavy processing for long-shelf life.
Basically, this era could hardly make something that tasted well and last longer.
Maxwell, the identity, had been eating similar salty or bland meals for a while now, making Max nauseous.
He even thought of passing on dinner. After all, Port Royal was just a few hours away.
He could last that long. At least, he hoped.
Gurgle.
His face flushed, embarrassed, as his body dashed his hopes with a splash of cold reality.
"No choice now," he braced himself for the inevitable.
He took the fork and knife, cutting the meat into small bites and forcing them down with minimal chewing.
"Why does this taste like rubber?" he voiced in hushed tone, his fork piercing the beans and peas and gradually pushing them into his mouth.
Whenever he found the taste overwhelming, he sipped the beverage, surviving the ordeal through sheer will.
At last, he somehow finished his meal and leaned back, releasing a tired breath. The simple meal had cost him both physical and mental strength.
"This era isn't for a modern person at all. At least not for one used to smooth city life." He shook his head, a determined spark in his eyes.
"I'll have to finish the task quickly and leave this godforsaken place—for my palate, for my stomach. Aunt Carla's fine dishes, I'm coming."
As such, Max found his resolve strengthening over the most unexpected and trivial matter of his life.
Then another thunderous order resounded:
"Change the watch!"
Before he knew it, the bustle of the ship echoed into his cabin, crew changing stations, new ones taking over, and the previous ones retreating.
As the night gazed down upon them, the atmosphere turned serene. Marco's last order for the day reverberated through the ship:
"Pipe down!"
The ship descended into tranquil silence as the crew retired to sleep in their quarters, while those on watch quieted down, waiting for their turn.
Max also felt no need to linger. He decided to make his way to bed.
As the ship quieted and the stars blinked over a restless ocean, Max lay in bed, mind full, stomach full… yet strangely hollow.
….
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