when she was little, she had a pirate flag hung over her bed. a real pirate flag, from a famous pirate’s ship (calico jack, perhaps), fresh as the day it was struck from the mast. the sight of it over her bed always gave her a little thrill. later, the sight of anything vaguely resembling her flag (a plate of chicken bones, crossed anything on black) made her edgy and adventurous.
what was it like growing up in a theme park? the parents with their arcane interests and boring meetings, making a mockery of their glorious past in order to shill the tourists, while the kids her age were the only ones who took their pirate heritage seriously, layering real skullduggery with the cute fuzzy costumes they had to wear to charm the babies.
sometimes the only one she could talk to was Wallace the Talking Ape, a curiosity they’d picked up years ago after a storm. all sorts of things washed up onto the island after a storm. strange things.
she was one of the older kids, she and another boy led all the explorations and practice raids, and all the younger kids turned to her. she still wasn’t sure what the adults were up to, but it was something odd and maybe dangerous, and she was determined to discover their secret.