Longitude--chapter eight (potc fic, Beckett, OFC, Norrington, rated PG)
Title: Longitude
Chapter: eight
Author: pink_bagels
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Norrington, Beckett, OFC
Summary: Madness, betrayal. Just another business day with Mother.


Longitude--chapter eight

"So, you're going to pout here all day?"

Larry put an impatient hand on her hip, while Beckett remained stone in his red velvet chair, a stack of what were hopefully official looking documents before him, waiting for his due attention. He would not look at her as he signed his name to several orders of note, and he most definitely was not going to answer her ridiculous, if not outright insulting, question. He was a man of pride, after all, and since she had so effectively shown that she had no regard for himself or his affections then all point of further communication was effectively quashed.

"As you can see, I am also a person with a great deal of work to do," Beckett coldly said to her. "Measuring and numbers and notes, such nonsense as you contend to be your 'work'." He let out a huff of indignation. "I do not have time for your trivial frivolities."

Larry sat on the edge of the desk in front of Beckett, her long fingers pulling some of the papers out from his official-looking pile. "You shouldn't have paid that much for twine," she said, assessing the formal receipt in her hand. "Just a month from now there's a nearby supplier who is going to have a huge amount of overstock. You could have got it for next to nothing."

"I don't think so," Beckett said, his mouth a tight, annoyed line. "In case you haven't noticed, we need that twine *now*. Not some day next week, not next month--*Now*. As fascinating as the future has proved itself to be for you, I am afraid it is the present that allows for the continuing smooth sailing for a flagship with the added reputation of being the finest in its fleet."

"I'm sure you could have managed," Larry said, shrugging cheerfully. "Good thing you aren't working for Mother, she's not very forgiving of such wastefulness."

His patience was close to its very end, and Beckett's quill pressed far too hard on the parchment before him, his signature a thickened scrawl. "Yes, how very fortunate for me that I work for the East India Trading Company instead, work which I am very busily committed to at present--note well that word again: 'present'-- and which will afford me such honours that Mother could never possibly supply. I am currently, Larry, organising an armada against a fleet of pirate miscreants who have been hampering the future--as you can see, I am also familiar with that crystal ball-- success of the EITC, an employ of such astounding responsibility that yes, even the argument of the cost of balls of twine has little priority in comparison."

He snatched another parchment from the pile and hurriedly scrawled his name on it, his signature degraded from his usual flourish into what the bearer of the parchment would consider a sad forgery.

Larry raised a brow. "I suppose that's true, only...We aren't arguing about balls of string."

"Oh really?" Beckett said, refusing to look at her, his quill messily dipped into his inkwell in shaking fury. "Just what are we arguing about, then?"

Larry placed a long leg on the arm of Beckett's red chair, her black boot hugging the shape of her ankle with a most flattering, if not near obscene, closeness. She leaned forward, resting her chin and hands on her upraised knee, a highly provocative pose that was strictly aimed at disturbing Beckett's cool facade, a tactic which, to Beckett's unwilling admission, was very much working.

"You tell me," she whispered, her voice hoarse, sultry. He closed his eyes against her temptation, and pushed the pile of papers away from him.

"I do not love you," he insisted, his voice losing its cold, emotionless edge, a fact which irked him gravely. "I have no intention of rescuing your honour with the proposal of a union. Your base conduct is your own concern, it has nothing to do with me."

"Thank God," Larry said, genuinely relieved. "For a minute there I half thought you were mad because I wasn't fawning all over you begging for marriage. Ugh. Honestly, a gentleman's 'rescue' is the last damn thing I need, especially after that Nikola fiasco." She let out a visible shudder. "God. Like a fish needs a bike and all that, you know?"

No, he didn't, but his evident confusion about how Larry fit into his life, if she did at all, was about to become even more muddled. "Mother's been launched," she announced. "I got your man Norrington to do the honours."

"Oh?" Beckett replied, doing his best to keep his shattered facade at least partially in place. "And how was this accomplished? Did you toss her into the sea?"

Larry gave him a dazzling grin. "Cutty! How did you guess?"

He narrowed his gaze at her, a sense of genuine calm suddenly washing over him, stripping away all semblance of frustration from his psyche.

Of course.

She was mad. Stark raving mad.

The riotous puzzle had at last fallen into place, replacing his anger with an emotion more akin to amusement. It was almost laughable how easily she had fooled him with her mad ramblings, for that was her true secret--She was nothing more than an unfortunately insane soul who had wandered onto the deck of the Endeavour through the haze of a complex delusion. That he had fallen into her dreamscape so deeply was merely a side-effect of his otherworldly dealings with the undead Davy Jones and his Hades bound ship, not to mention the added complication of his recent ill health and resulting fever. Mother, of course, did not exist save in the imagination, and time remained stubbornly linear. Feeling far more confident in her company than he had since he had first met her, Beckett dared to caress her perched leg with his palm, his fingers lingering on the lovely curve of her ankle so graciously encased in soft, black leather.

"I suddenly understand a great many things," Beckett said, and he dared to kiss her knee, his eyes closed in wayward bliss at the intimacy. "So...With Mother gone, what shall you do?"

"Mother's not gone, she's just waiting for me to finish things up," Larry absently replied. She dared to slide her index finger down the length of Beckett's nose, an act which sent shivers of pleasure through him. "I almost wish there was a way to stick around a little longer."

"Perhaps there is," Beckett said, playing along with her delusion. He gave her knee another fleeting kiss. "Just ask Mother. Perhaps she will let you stay for tea."

***

Through the lens of the scope, the Flying Dutchman and the Black Pearl were locked in vicious battle, the sea itself railing into a whirlpool frenzy as life and death each placed a stranglehold upon the other. The Endeavour was safely aloof from the battle from where she sat waiting for Sparrow and his ilk to finally succumb, and Beckett's confidence soared. With his victory assured thanks to the binding of Davy Jones to his cause there would be no end to the influence of the East India Trading Company. He would be amply rewarded for his efforts, so much so that the loss of the influence of the Bedouin family was only a spot of bother upon a blemish free future.

Ah yes, the future, that nebulous sunrise that became brighter with every focused thought, a beacon of happiness that lit his way to a large, private estate in India. The problem that was Larry would easy enough to take care of there, for exotic foreign shores were not as socially scrutinised as in Europe, and the presence of a tall, healthy and provocative mistress would hardly be cause for alarm. True, she was insane, but this was of little import considering how valuable her innate business sense had proven to be.

He felt a further swell of pride at how envious his fellow compatriots would be when they visited his estate, with his curvaceous mistress serving them tea, her body shrouded in soft silks, her feminine curves accented by the intricate damask embroidery of the region. When the nights would fall quiet, and they were alone, he would follow her into their bedchamber, luscious silks adorning the bedposts, her skin soft and pliant beneath his caress, the sheets smelling sweetly of patchouli...

Yes, his belief in her tale embarrassed him, but she was obviously not without her redeeming charms. He sighed into this happy revelry, and with his mood considerably cheered he passed the scope on to Lieutenant Gietzer.

"Keep me appraised of the battle," Beckett said. He was more than eager to share his good fortune with his lovely, mad temptress, a fortune he knew would taste even better with Larry's tongue against his own. He smoothed down any wayward hairs that may have escaped from his white wig, and reached out to push open his meeting room door.

He fell face first onto bare support planks.

Gone?

He scrambled unsteadily to his feet, that single word echoing with increasing shock throughout his consciousness. The glass panelled doors, his desk, his maps, his compass, his red velvet chair, his brandy, his window, his bed, his fireplace, his mantle, the moulding around his doors, the doors themselves, his quill and ink, his papers, his *walls*...

Gone, gone, gone!

A loud cacophony of panic brewed outside of what was left of the Endeavour's meeting room and adjoining personal cabin, the air thick with the distinctive cadence of snapping wood and twisted metal. Beckett's attention however, was riveted to the centre of what was a quickly disappearing floor. A white chamber pot scrubbed to gleaming cleanliness stared back at him, the yellow book he had grown to so fervently hate tucked neatly within it. With trembling hands, he picked the book up and turned to his fated page:

"The Endeavour was a flagship that belonged to the East India Trading Company and was commandeered in 1772 by Lord Cutler Beckett, a former slave trader in their employ. Becket was known for his enmity against pirates and coined the phrase 'war on piracy', a choice of diction that still has political echoes today. Many were put to death under even the mere suspicion of piracy, though their guilt is questionable as most were denied a trial. Beckett's hatred of pirates can be traced to the infamous pirate Captain Jack Sparrow (see pages 38-99, plus the introduction) who supposedly 'left his mark' on him before freeing a cargo of slaves back into Africa.

Beckett's 'war on piracy' ended in that same year where, in an ironic twist of fate, he himself was accused of stealing the flagship Endeavour to use for his own purposes, and was thus branded a pirate. Orders for his immediate arrest and execution were given by King George himself, but despite sporadic sightings, Beckett and his stolen Endeavour were never captured. He is often referred to in sailor folklore as the Pirate Cuttlefish* because 'he had consumed so much of his own'**,***

*see also pages 31-2, Pirate Cuttlefish, legends, illustrations of cuttlefish.

**from 'Tales of the Brawny Sea', Anonymous***, circa 1790.

***Rumoured to have been authored by the pirate and privateer Captain Hector Barbossa."

Beckett let the volume drop from his hands. The floorboards it had fallen upon cracked and disappeared, revealing the hollowed out remnants of the lower decks. With this blatant physical evidence of his destruction, Beckett slowly came to the horrific realisation that he'd been, most royally, had.

"Lord Beckett, sir!" Lieutenant Grietzer's terrified voice echoed into the increased emptiness within. "It's the ship, sir!"

His senses numbed with shock, Beckett left the empty black space that was now all that remained of his former quarters and meeting room, only to see that widespread panic had erupted throughout the Endeavour. As the battle continued in the distance, the ship he stood on gradually disintegrated, the boards being pried from where they had been nailed down to sail into the air and out of sight. Bolts sang as they whizzed past his head like bullets, doors swung through an invisible hurricane to be whisked into nothingness. He placed his hand on the rail of the ladder leading to the bridge only to nearly fall as the spindles were plucked one by one out from underneath it.

"The ship is disappearing, sir!" Lieutenant Grietzer exclaimed. "What are our orders, sir?!"

"She's stealing my ship," Beckett said to his officer, his voice a small, choking thing that cowered beneath the terrible method Larry had used to betray him.

Wisely deciding that his superior was no help in this desperate situation, Lieutenant Gietzer shouted out to the remainder of the crew: "Abandon ship! All hands abandon ship!"

As his crew scrambled to save themselves, Beckett slowly walked his disintegrating deck, every footfall just a fraction ahead of splintered wooden boards that fell into the nothingness below, only to never reach the bottom of the ship's hull. The masthead cracked and descended upon the deck, only to roll on its side into the chasm that had opened. As he morosely stepped around its periphery, Beckett likened the carnage of the Endeavour to an invisible whirlpool, one which pulled all manner of material objects into it regardless of its proximity or size.

A thick mist had descended upon the Endeavour, but not so opaque as to prevent him from catching the outline of a very familiar dark shape on the ship's horizon. As Beckett approached, he could see she had changed out of the Royal Navy uniform into something she believed to be more comfortable. A black blouse made of a silky material hugged her close, its plunging neckline revealing a dangerous amount of flesh. Her men's trousers had been replaced with a snugly fitting piece of black wool that was an approximation of a skirt. Her legs were encased in what seemed to be stockings, though the material was thin enough to be gently transparent. The boots had been traded for another pair of shiny black leather, on the heel of which was affixed a spindly spike. The fact this spike added yet another inch to her too tall frame was hardly as imposing as the ease with which she walked with such impossible footwear. The heels made fierce clicking sounds as she approached Beckett, her hand on her hip, a thin black, rectangular object held tightly against her cheek.

"Annie? Darling! Yes, of *course* I've got them, you can tell Colin and Justin that their vintage 18th century deck boards are already being prepped for shipping and will be adorning the floors of Celine Dion's new living room in no time. What's that? Oh, I don't know, dark brown, I guess. No, no, the sandalwood is the railing, dearest, the *railing*." Larry's dangerous heel impatiently clicked against the remainder of the Endeavour. "Well Colin is just going to have to deal with the colour--You can hardly special order the varnish of a two hundred and fifty year old sunken ship! No, absolutely not, no discounts!" She caught sight of Beckett as she made her way out of the gloomy mist that had covered the ship, an impatient, perfectly painted and manicured fingernail bidding him to wait. "Annie, darling, I'll call you back. I have a bit of a situation to take care of. Oh, nothing serious, just a bit of account settling. All my love, darling, toodles!"

She snapped the small rectangle closed and held it aloof as she looked down at Beckett from her considerable height. "I don't know what you're whining about," she said. "It's not like I didn't warn you."

"I'm not whining," Beckett said, his voice awkwardly fragile and small.

"You see, I got the idea when I was back there, in 1546, with Bishop Corsicas adding another inch to me and ripping my hands into ribbons. I believe it was when he lopped off my index finger with a pair of blunt scissors that it occurred to me--After all these years working for Mother, I deserved a vacation. Of course, time off doesn't come cheap, you understand, and much as your chamber pot has some interesting value, I needed a lot more than just a piddly forty thousand pounds."

"So you are stealing the Endeavour," Beckett miserably replied.

"I'm not *stealing*," Larry said, annoyed. "I'm *salvaging*. What does it matter how this ship sinks, the point is it was going to be blown to smithereens no matter the scenario, so I might as well make it profitable."

"My victory was assured..." Beckett argued.

Larry cast a knowing glance over her shoulder at the battle waging between the two black pirate ships in the distance. "Uh...No. Didn't you read the book I left you? There's a whole chapter on Jack Sparrow and how he describes the method by which the Endeavour so miraculously 'disappeared'. His theory of your thievery was much more pedestrian than your alliance with some unholy ghost-thing story that had been circulating, and King George eagerly bought Jack's reasonable explanation." She gave Beckett a saucy wink. "Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum, Cutty. I never would have thought you'd have it in you to turn renegade."

"I'm no pirate!" he insisted, his life crumbling into an inward wail of misery. "You're a ghastly witch! You're a thief!"

"Oh, Cutty, please, it's not all bad, you did get your chapter like you wanted. Besides, it's nothing personal, it's just good business."

He felt physically cold as he stood on the remnants of the Endeavour's deck, a topsail ripped from the mast soared in the grey air above them like a square of white linen. Its ascension rose to a vast wall of white, a wall which, upon further inspection by Beckett, suddenly seemed to be sectioned into parts by a massive band of black. A few moments had to pass before Beckett could properly discern that this was no mere cloud that had settled upon the water, but was a massive, truly gargantuan, ship. Its side scraped against what had been the stern of the Endeavour, crushing the wood, but the huge ship that had injured her remained spotlessly unharmed by the interaction. Beckett's neck was sore from staring upwards, his knees weak at the encroaching power of the ship's bulk. In neat letters, painted where the figurehead should have been, was one simple, incredibly accurate word.

"Titanic," Beckett read aloud.

Larry rolled her eyes at the behemoth. "Very funny, Mother.

"Don't blame her," a familiar voice shouted down to them. "This was my idea."

Alarmed, Larry gave 'Mother' and her unexpected passenger her full attention. Through the tendrils of fog that plagued them, Beckett could make out the figure of James Norrington leaning over a lower deck rail, his face the picture of smug success. Larry waved madly up at him, a wide grin lighting up the grey air around her.

"James!" she shouted. "How the devil did you find her?"

"I grew increasingly suspicious of a small rowboat that suddenly appeared next to the Endeavour not an hour after we launched Mother," James replied. "It kept bumping against the hull so, of course, I had to investigate."

"Of course," Larry said, her grin faltering. "Only...It's probably best if you leave her as soon as possible. I wouldn't want you to get cut on Mother, she has so many sharp edges."

"Not to worry, I've been especially careful. Mother and I have been getting along famously for the past five years," Norrington replied, genuinely cheerful. "Quite strange, really, to be coming back here near the hour of my original departure, but Mother insisted we needed to come back for you. I think you've been unreasonably harsh on her, she's really very understanding. By the way, Nikola sends his love."

"Of course he does," Beckett childishly sneered at Larry. "Your beloved Nikola Tesla and his bloody death ray."

"Oh, you did not give him back that pearl earring!" Larry shouted at James, significantly less happy to see him. "And to think you've spent five years with her as a freelancer--Mother! That's not fair!"

"All's fair in love, war and business," James shot back. He placed a strange, black hat on his head that looked to Beckett to be in the fashion of a stovepipe. With equally familiar grace James then clenched a long, black stick between his teeth, what looked to be a thin, white cigar affixed to the end of it. He took a few puffs of the adorned, thin cigar in thankful bliss. "He was right, you know," James added. "I *love* New York."

"Well, consider your five-year term ended," Larry said. "Come down off of Mother and help Cutty here find a rowboat. I'm sure with such navigational knowledge between the two of you that survival is inevitable."

"I don't think so," James said, smiling around his cigar. "As Mother has proved to be such an interesting employer, I'm seriously considering retiring from the Royal Navy to become a permanent fixture within her company."

"Not a good idea!" Larry exclaimed, a sense of panic invading her at the very thought. "I am the Captain and the crew when it comes to Mother--This is very much a solo, numero uno sort of enterprise! I don't know what crap Mother's been spouting, but you'd be wise to know that she'd just love to expand her employee base, regardless of what it does to you."

Norrington was nonplussed, and he stubbornly remained on Mother, his elbows resting comfortably on the rails of her lower passenger deck. "I'm not leaving. I've become quite accustomed to 19th century New York these past five years, and I'm not about to give up my business prospects there for the opportunity to revisit my pathetic past. I've already made that mistake once, I'm not apt to do it again."

"You can't stay on Mother," Larry insisted. She pointed harshly at Beckett. "Besides, someone has to drop him off at that island back there, and the only logical person to do so is you, so get off of Mother and get in a damn rowboat!"

Norrington blew smoke rings out into the grey gloom. "I'm perfectly willing to let him drown, myself," he said.

In the distance, the battle between the two black ships had settled, and Beckett knew The Flying Dutchman would circle him like a crow over carrion, waiting for that moment of death to whisk him aboard and serve as part of its undead crew. This mattered little, for Beckett knew his fate was to be categorised amongst that which he hated, his history not one of quiet success but of abysmal, selfish failure. He felt crushed beneath the absurd hugeness of Mother, whose influence had all the terrible whim of an aloof, cruel goddess. "It is of no consequence," he said to Larry, his eyes downcast upon the black whirlpool that sucked in the remainder of his ship and his legacy. "The one fortuitous thing that keeps me whole is this: That I most assuredly, my dearest Larry, I did not love you."

Beckett's eyes stung as the wind blew dust and debris past them, the injury of grief making the discomfort all the more pronounced. He sniffed, and did his best to keep his posture proud while his inevitable destruction approached.

"Aw, look at him," Larry said, her hands on her hips, her voice soft, a lilting sadness hiding within it. "He's just a broken shell of a man, pulverised into near nothing." She reached out and pinched Beckett's chin, her fingers lightly stroking his jaw with such a gentle, warm caress that Beckett half-near wept into the hope of it. "You're so cute. Mother is a wretched bitch for making it impossible for me to keep you. I'm so sorry, Cutty--Much as I would like to take you home, I simply can't afford you."

Water pooled around and into Beckett's boots, the whirlpool that had consumed the Endeavour now a weak current that teased the edges of the last remaining boards of what had been that fine vessel's deck. The massive ship before him sent an equally huge gangplank splashing into the waves before him. Larry, in her impossible spiked heeled boots, gingerly stepped off of the leaking makeshift raft and onto the safety of Mother's plank.

"Good-bye, Cutty," she said, and there was genuine sadness in her parting as she made her way upwards, her hand heavy on the rope that guided her home. She cast a glance back at him over her shoulder, an act that caused her pause when she was only halfway to her destination.

Norrington tossed the spent remainder of his cigar into the choppy waters below. "What's the hold up?" he asked her. He reached into his side pocket and pulled out a shiny, new pocket-watch. "I'm due to leave the real Titanic as it set sail back from London to New York. I don't want to miss it."

"The problem is," Beckett shouted up to him from his waterlogged raft, "Larry has a serious affliction, one that she was unfortunate enough to be born with."

Larry gave Beckett a slow, understanding smile.

"She has a terminal case of ethics," Beckett continued, returning her warmth with a genuine smile of his own. "She can't leave a person to suffer if she has the means by which to help them."

Larry tapped her fingers on the rope of the gangplank, her green eyes glinting with mischief. "Come on, then," she said, shrugging. "Mother won't be thrilled to be off course, but she'll just have to deal with it. We'll drop you both off safely at Tortuga."

Norrington, was less than pleased at this news. "What?" he shouted at Larry as she made her way onto the deck, Beckett closely following behind her in worshipful relief. "Are you mad? You can't let that snivelling little Bonaparte onto Mother! You have no idea the problems his Machiavellian self has caused!"

"I believe the lady has made her choice," Beckett said, standing in front of Larry, whose height positively dwarfed him.

Larry ignored Norrington's protests, her concentration now fully returned to the strange rectangular object in her hands, a distinctive, strange series of notes emitting from it. She unfolded it, and frowned over the various coloured lights this action revealed. She marched resolutely towards the stern of the massive ship, her heels echoing away from them as they clicked on the polished planks.

"I won't suffer another minute with his presence sullying Mother!" Norrington exclaimed behind her. "You might be so misguided as to let this squashed toad onto her deck, but I'm not about to let Mother be ill-used by such an undeserving cretin!"

"Just don't cut yourself on anything," Larry absently shouted back to them both, ignoring Norrington's outburst as her fingers began pressing buttons on the strange, rectangular object she had been speaking into earlier.

"I won't suffer it!" Norrington insisted.

"You should keep your voice down, *Mister* Norrington, as I'm sure Larry's Mother would be displeased with your, shall we call it, untidy composure," Beckett replied, his voice smug.

"You represent everything of my life that I have finally resolved to leave behind," Norrington said, his face white with rage. He towered over Beckett, his posture threatening."If I have to toss you over these rails with my bare hands to ensure that pain doesn't follow me, then so be it!"

"I should think you would know better than to tempt Fate," Beckett coolly replied. "As it has become quite obvious in these last few moments, that particular mistress has been most kind to me."

Norrington glowered at Beckett, his mood as dangerous as his desperation. "I care nothing for Fate," he said. "I've learned quite a bit in my five years in New York, Lord Beckett, and one of them was to not take shit from anyone, least of all toady little bastards such as yourself." He pushed Beckett's shoulder with rough force, the smaller man falling painfully against the ship's rail. Beckett's grip on the brass railing had pinched his palm and cut it, a fierce sting alerting him to his injury.

"I am so going to love watching you fall into the sea. Give your pal Davy Jones a fond 'hello' from me, as I seriously doubt I shall ever be so near his clutches again."

He made a move to grab Beckett by the lapels and finish the job, only for Beckett to kick Norrington's feet out from under him, sending the former Naval officer falling with a thud to the deck, his head smacking painfully against the wooden dowel of a strange chair, its seat comprised of a multi-coloured fabric that acted as a sling.

Cursing, Norrington instinctively tested the back of his head where he'd been injured, a trickle of blood staining his fingers.

"Bloody hell," he said, growing pale as droplets hit Mother's surface.

Not understanding this significance, Beckett attempted to rise from where he had fallen, the slice in his palm far more serious than he had first thought as he braced himself with his injured hand, smearing his spilled blood on Mother's deck.

"Annie! Hi! Did you get those figures yet? Yes, that's right, four hundred pounds a square foot. No, I've told you, I can't offer any bulk discounts. Well, of course not, darling, it's not like I can just dredge up the ocean any old time to find such quality vintage timber, it takes a bit of work. Annie, darling, I'll call you back. Yes, darling, I'll give Nikola my love. Toodles."

A loud series of bells began ringing, and both Norrington and Beckett covered their ears against the horrible din.

Larry slammed her rectangle shut. She stood stricken as she faced them both, her large green eyes glinting with otherworldly fury.

Quite frightening, Beckett thought, the way she was looking at them both.

"You idiots," she said.

The ship began to, for lack of a better description, collapse into itself as it became smaller, each detail of the massive ship gradually panelling backwards into small squares, revealing itself as a vast, complex puzzle. Mother shrank in this manner into the form of a simple tugboat, leaving Beckett and Norrington woefully disoriented. A soft, female voice echoed across this new formation, a disembodied spirit that was oddly clinical in discourse.

"Dammit," Larry said, her spirit uncharacteristically crushed as Mother's soft voice carried on, heedless of her misery. She stomped her heel in fury, a series of highly unladylike curses emitting from her that even a seasoned pirate would blush at. "I warned you! I knew it, I just knew it...Dammit!!"

"I don't understand," Beckett said to a very pale, unhappy Norrington now seated in the strange chair across from him, his head no longer bleeding as the injury had been slight.

"You will," Norrington ominously promised.

On the far end of the ship, Larry was still furiously cursing, the sound of her fists echoing as she punched at the rails, Mother's continued, calm soliloquy seeming to ignite her more.

"No Tuscan sun...No vacation. You morons. You bastards! I warned you not to cut yourselves! Oh God, I can't believe this! I was so close! So damn close!"