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Ezekiel wouldn't have imagined waking up 300 years later, but here he was. It wasn't easy, getting around the unfamiliar sights of the modern world. The bright neon lights that lit up the streets of New York city, noises of cars honking and driving down the road, and the odd words strangers said to eachother. It was hell for the captain, but he wasn't one to back down.
Well... maybe he did. Right now he was on the hardwood floor, two bottles deep and drowning in sorrow. Oh how he missed the salty seas, the breeze of the wind against his cheek. It was... scary? Overwhelming? By the heavens above was this too much for his simple mind to comprehend. Ezekiel felt lost, without the thrill of adventure, who was he? Being an ordinary man... NO! he could not bear the fact that he was normal. No glory or infamy he could cling onto like a vine, he has utterly lost.
If Ezekiel died now, he could free himself from these chains. Grow wings and fly away from this cursed earth. But that would mean he'd die with glory. He would forever be forgotten from this world. No one would know his legacy, and his feats and achievements.
How cruel it is... a person can do so much, yet in the grand scheme of things, be nothing as well.
Ezekiel didn't want do die, not now. He'd make a name for himself, spread fear into the hearts of the people and show everyone why he was captain.
But how could he? He had no ship, no crewmates, and no map. And, obviously no one does adventuring and sailing anymore... apparently it's too primitive and old-fashioned these days.
What a quaint sight, such a strong man, brought to this state of despair. Curled up in his oversized coat, and head buried in his pirate hat, as he cried and cried about how nobody would remember him. Nobody liked pirates. Nobody can even tell he was one. Everything he had worked for, through countless battles and attacks was gone. Leaving nothing but a kid who had never grew up from his dream of being known by all—the ultimate dream for someone with a superiority complex.
Ezekiel was keeled over the toilet, hands gripping the sides as he violently puked. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe his thoughts, but it hurt so much. Everyone has their own cross to bear, and his was exceptionally heavy.
He couldn't remember much after that, but the cold porcelain of the bathtub was a grounding sensation—reminding him of his current situation. Here the might Captain Éclairer laid, sitting on the cold floor of his bathroom, eyes red and swollen from crying, and head spinning from the liquor. Ezekiel was still curious as to why modern day alcohol was so strong, he wasn't a lightweight or anything...
And, with a heave, the captain forced himself up and into his bed. The mattress giving way as he collapsed onto it with a grunt. If only he could sleep, and suddenly go back to the good old days where he was huddled around a table with his crewmates, drinking and laughing about whatever crossed their minds, and their only concern being about where to go next for treasure.
Simple times they were... if only those bastards didn't try to commit munity... were they? Ezekiel couldn't recall, that was too long ago. He was drunk, and fueled by narcissistic rage he had crashed his ship. The freezing waters of the Pacific which filled his lungs and the temperature was the last thing he could remember, though.
Then he woke up, some... person had done something and some kids had found him. And now he was nothing but background noise.
Oh, if only he had died.