Skybound

Between the two, what would you consider to be the greater risk to my life: taking on the world’s deadliest sky pirate alone (to rob him of all his worth), or climbing the rope wagging from the bottom of his airship with only one hand?

With my grasp locked around this dangling piece of twine, as I hang like an insect beneath the massive ship, suspended high above the restless clouds, I can most certainly assure you–ascending handless in the wind is by far the greater risk.

The common consensus is that losing a hand is the price one pays for stealing, striking fear into the hearts of wannabe thieves, dissuading one from the path of depravity. But the way I see it, the loss of a hand has nothing to do with being a thief, and everything to do with getting caught. My missing hand is nothing more than a reminder of how I blundered the last time and the reason I’ll never fail again. 

What? Surely you didn’t think I would abandon my thieving ways due to the unfortunate fate that befell me! How little you know of my unyielding spirit. My friend, adversity is my playground, a canvas for me to paint my masterpieces of ingenuity. One handed, two handed, or no hands at all, I shall always find a way to liberate a Skyrate of their treasured possessions. 

And, if I’m being honest, having one hand isn’t all that bad. The key is to breathe life into the stolen goods, rather than leaving them to gather dust. And in those pivotal moments of life, death, and thieving, a multi-tool prosthetic limb, consistently proves invaluable. Yet, in this moment of peril, I find myself grappling with a situation unlike any I've faced before. 

The wind howls and rages, mercilessly toying with the rope that dangles precariously in the sky. Desperation sets in as I struggle to maintain my grip, feeling the rope slip through my grasp like it's been slicked with butter. With a swift maneuver, I twist my foot around the hanging thread, anchoring myself in a desperate bid for stability. My hand clenches onto the lifeline with a vice-like grip; my knuckles drain of color. Amidst the challenge, my only solace lies in the freedom of my encased prosthetic arm. The irony persists, however, as its arsenal of sharp blades and pointed metals, like a Swiss Army knife, offers little aid in the face of a mere thread. But little aid, is better than none at all.

With a flick of my prosthetic-encased wrist, I unleash a gleaming silver hook, barbed at the tip and plunge it between the intertwined fibers–like sticking a fishhook through a narrow piece of cloth. I begin clawing my way upward, placing hook in front of hand then hand in front of hook; inching closer and closer in agonizing strain. 

As I draw closer to the underbelly of the ship, the wind taunts me like an immature child. "Don't look down” it whispers in my ear. Now, why would I do something so foolish? Make no mistake, fear does not course through my veins. After all, would I attempt such a daring feat if I were afraid? It's merely a matter of cold logic. Gazing into a vat of empty space, with the threat of an unforgiving fall, serves no purpose but to tempt fate. So I climb with eyes locked on the goal.

But this wind. This God-forsaken wind seems to harbor a personal vendetta against me and the tenuous rope I’m bound to. It lunges at me like a high school bully, demanding my surrender. I refuse. I repeatedly unfasten and impale my hook into the rope, ascending upward one inch at a time. My biceps scream in torment as my muscles rip apart. I clench my jaw and grind my teeth; my brain begging me to stop lest they turn into dust. Yet nothing will stop me from robbing a Skyrate. 

But as I raise my hand to impale the rope once more, the ship turns abruptly and a burst of wind rams me like an angry bull. I try to keep my grip, but I have nothing else to give. In a heart-stopping moment, I lose my hold. In an unexpected turn of events, I fall.

I’m not sure what it is about falling from certain heights, but time seems to last forever; and who has time for that? The rope snaps taut, snatching the foot I had wrapped around and jerks me up across the air until I slam my head against the hull. I’m carelessly dropped back down, rendered unconscious.

Like a spider desperately clinging to her a silk thread amidst a cyclone, here I hang, swinging freely in the wind under an airship governed by ruthless Skyrates. This may very well be the single most dumbest thing I’ve done. Nevertheless, I never embark on a venture if I do not intend to finish it.

Gradually emerging from my unconscious state, I glance into a topsy-turvy world where the ground sits above me, spinning with a dizzying fervor that threatens to unsettle even the sturdiest of men. Summoning every ounce of strength, I muster a sit-up in mid-air, straining to grasp the elusive rope. Alas, my efforts prove in vain, and I tumble backward, left hanging like a puppet on a string. I let out a frustrating yelp and make a second attempt but fall short, just shy of grabbing the rope and hang lifeless once more.

I would rather swallow a campfire and ingest its flames than bear the unique searing burn I feel in my abdomen right now. But again I try, channeling every ounce of strength into the sit-up and swing my hooked hand at the rope. It catches. I shout with relief and laugh hysterically as I haul myself into an upright position, clinging to the rope like a lifeline. I hang there for a moment and heave with exhaustion. I came here for one purpose. And I’m going to finish it. 

This time, I wrap my hand around the rope, until the searing agony of rope burn brands its mark on my hand. Few things in this world are worse, but plummeting to your demise surely claims a spot on that list. I ascend with a newfound urgency, battling against the relentless onslaught of wind with my silver hook clawing at the rope. The wind shoves against me, but I sink my teeth into the cord, biting like a rabid dog to give me extra grip. Death flirts, but I’m not flattered by its charm. I claw, and bite, and pull my way up, until finally, I reach the ship.

Flipping the silver hook back into my prosthetic, I flip out a large, jagged-teethed blade in its place and begin sawing an opening through the hull of the ship. When I said having a multi-tool prosthetic hand isn’t all that bad, this is what I meant.

As I carve the hole, saw dust stings my eyes and tears stream down my face, but given the choice between dangling upside down from an airship soon to fall to my death or having dust blown into my eyes, I’d rather take the latter. The hole is made and with a final pull, I manage to haul myself inside the orlop deck of the ship where ropes and cables are stored. I lay on the floor, and offer a smile; I laugh and place a hand on my head. All things considered, things went pretty well.

Now, you might object to my ways of life and tell me there is no honor among thieves. Perhaps you are right. But I would hardly call stealing from a Skyrate an act of dishonor. You see, I am not an indiscriminate savage like those Skyrate marauders who reign mercilessly in their airborne vessels, plundering the innocent and slaying at will. I rob to survive beneath their ruthless dominion. I steal what’s mine and give back what’s been taken from others.

Granted, I would be remiss if I claimed no similarity to the Skyrates at all. They too pilfer to survive. The difference lies within their targets and motives: the lowly destitute who cannot defend themselves and among each other, all in the relentless pursuit of amassing further wealth for their own wicked pleasures.

I, on the other hand, solely plunder from the Skyrates to restore what has been taken from the poor and less fortunate. I reclaim that which was stolen. And if a thief merely reclaims what rightfully belongs to him, can they still be labeled a thief? 

I don’t know, but I didn't arrive here to engage in philosophical debates or ethics. The greater risk is over and now the fun begins.