Brannigan has always possessed exceptional eyes for detail—a necessity in his trade as information broker, spy, and professional lurker near exits. These same eyes now twitch with a kind of automated fury that his physician has diagnosed as "persistent irritation with notifications" and prescribed deep breathing for, which suggests that physicians in this age know very little about actual suffering.
The curse manifested three weeks ago, on his salvaged "laptop"—a glowing rectangle that somehow contained more power than entire navies once wielded. Brannigan had employed this device for its intended purposes: surveilling targets, intercepting digital messages, identifying which harbor residents possessed what commodities of illicit value. Straightforward work. Honest, in the pirate sense of the word.
Then came the message: "Windows Update. Your computer will restart in 15 minutes."
Brannigan's immediate response involved several profanities and an attempt to find whoever had hidden inside the glowing rectangle to give him instructions. Finding no concealed person, he clicked the button that said "Remind Me Later." He was, he felt, being entirely reasonable.
Fourteen minutes passed.
"Windows Update. Your computer will restart in 1 minute."
Brannigan considers this blackmail. More specifically, he considers this what landlubbers call "Ship Maintenance You Cannot Refuse"—a concept utterly alien to maritime tradition, where if your ship requires maintenance, you fire whoever is responsible and promote someone younger. Here, the machine itself demands tribute, and there exists no mechanism for refusal that doesn't involve destroying the machine, which defeats the purpose.
His escalating war with Windows Update has become something of a legend in harbor circles. Witnesses report finding Brannigan screaming at his glowing rectangle while updating occurred, threatening the machine with rusty implements while simultaneously understanding that the machine lacks the physical form to threaten back. He has tried ignoring updates. The machine shuttered itself mid-work. He has tried unplugging the device. It merely interrupted the update and resumed upon restart. He even attempted the strategic repositioning of his laptop off the pier, briefly hoping drowning might kill whatever was demanding his submission.
His current arrangement involves scheduling updates for midnight, then simply accepting his sleeplessness as the cost of doing business in modernity. He has been heard muttering that ancient kings understood the principle: eventually, every subject must kneel to the demands of their masters, even when those masters are incorporeal and demand only that your computer restart itself.
Last Tuesday, a new update required not fifteen minutes of tolerance but forty-seven hours of interrupted service. Brannigan did not emerge from his cabin for two days. When he did, his eyes possessed a glassy quality that suggested his soul had partially achieved disconnection.
"Yes," he whispered when asked how he was faring. "To all of it. Whatever they want. Yes."