The Arrival

[jackdaws_master]

"Our helmsman's dead! Someone take the wheel!"

There was a storm, a colossal one, and a frigate looming up out of it. He can remember that. (And a figure- a man in a white hood? He thinks.)

There's no more powder-stench in his nostrils. The air's not sizzling with lightning the more. His ears've stopped ringing, though whether that's true quiet or deafness he can't say. But he's not pitching and rolling about, nor is the water tumbling him arse over teakettle like a kitten's play-thing. There's just sand...

His ribs heaving in a mighty cough that brings up near as much salt-water as air, Edward Kenway pushes himself up on an unfamiliar bit of Caribbean inlet and opens his eyes.

Comments

[andinfluencepeople]

The easiness in his voice bugs Chuck a bit, but he lets it sit for now. Mostly.

He's never known Beckett to be calm about kaiju.

He sighs. "I guess there's not much of a choice, is there?"

[jackdaws_master]

"Not unless you felt like sitting on the beach and catching the occasional crab 'til some hapless fishing schooner drifted by," says Edward. "Come now! Whatever that light is, it's got to be better than Hell."

If the stories are right, he'd have smelled the brimstone by now.

[andinfluencepeople]

"I have no idea what you're on," Chuck mutters to himself, going.

That's what has to be happening here, right? The Marshall's memory of some, intoxicated Beckett?

The only other option -- the only option he can think of, other than that -- is the one where he's somehow a projection, too, the Drift twisting the half-caught memories like a ball of--

He stops, suddenly, feeling sick. He looks down at his hands, and counts his fingers with his thumb.

If he's ignoring Kerney-- Conway? -- Beckett, well. He, at least, has to be a projection.

[jackdaws_master]

"A few lungfuls of seawater, nothing worse- only a fool drinks at sea," declares Edward. "Are you coming?"

Answer or no, he's setting off towards the light. Like as not there's some village in amongst the trees. If he's lucky, there'll be someone about who speaks English, and if he's not, he'll find some way to get to civilisation regardless.

[andinfluencepeople]

"Yeah," Chuck says, after a long moment. He follows behind, slower, before loping to catch up.

"Why're you okay with this?" Chuck asks, a little suspicious. "Do you think you're dead, too?"

If Beckett's died and decided to mock him even now, Chuck will -- Chuck will mostly be upset that the mission failed.

(Did the mission fail? Is him not being dead a sign of something worse happening?

He hopes he's dead. Fuck.)

[jackdaws_master]

"The thought had crossed my mind," Edward admits as he continues on his way. "Though I can't recall taking an injury fit to send me to the bottom, and I don't feel as one would expect a walking dead man to feel. But whether I am or not, there's nothing that my fretting about it could change, either for better or worse. Better by far to save my energy for whatever might lie ahead of us, eh?"

[andinfluencepeople]

"How," Chuck says, "exactly would a dead man feel? Because there isn't another option I'm willing to accept, here."

[jackdaws_master]

"Well, I should think he'd feel a bit sore, wouldn't he?" says Edward. "Broken and injured in places where he'd been wounded before going down? Although I suppose if you put much stock in the resurrection of the body that wouldn't be half so likely. But a dead man would have no need of sleep nor food nor warmth in any case, and I for one wouldn't say no to any or all of those things."

He casts an eye over the armoured fellow thoughtfully.

"Is it so very common as all that, to have dead men walking about in your part of England?"

[andinfluencepeople]

Chuck stops and turns to him, muscle at the side of his jaw twitching. "I am not," he says, as controlled as possible, "a bloody Pom.

"And no," he adds, voice rising as he throws a hand out to his side, "we don't have zombies in Australia, but I was at the bottom of the Pacific setting off a bloody thermo-nuclear bomb so excuse me if I'm pretty fucking sure I'm dead."

[jackdaws_master]

Edward's eyebrows lift at what seems to him awfully like wrath come out of nowhere. A madman's wrath at that, as a good half the words the poor fellow uses make no sense at all.

"I beg your pardon, then," he says, half-lifting his hands to show them empty of weapons. "But I was Swansea born, and that's never a Welsh accent I'm hearing from you. Not Cornish, either- I've sailed with a few Cornishmen in my time. Where's this Australia, then? Can't say the name rings many bells, but it's been a long while since I was last a schoolboy."

[andinfluencepeople]

Chuck stares at him for a long moment, torn between bewildered and angry.

"It's the big bloody continent," he says, "you know, the one under Indonesia?

"You're fucking with me, aren't you."

[jackdaws_master]

Indonesia, Indonesia- it's almost a familiar word. Some bunch of islands, no doubt- Portuguese? Dutch? One of those two, but Edward'll be buggered if he remembers which.

"That's... ah, I recall now; you mean New Holland," he finally says as the image of a map seen some time ago swims across his memory. Well, that explains why he was gadding about the with the Spaniards, then. Far less bad blood between Holland and Spain than England and Spain, to be certain. "I hadn't known anybody there spoke English. For a Dutchman you're very good at it."

[andinfluencepeople]

Chuck's heard of New Holland, even if he can't place it in his rage.

Beckett is fucking with him. And it was funny at first, maybe, maybe, but it's not funny now, Chuck died today.

Anyway, if he knew what Beckett was talking about, he'd be angry anyway at the condescension. He doesn't need any old American (Welshman, whatever) giving him history lessons.

Those thought happen very, very quickly. From the outside, his response looks more like grabbing 'Beckett' by the arms, and shoving him towards the ground, dropping his helmet in the process. From their last fight, he knows one thing Beckett can do -- when expecting it -- is keep his footing.

Chuck's feet slip a bit as he moves; winter grass isn't very forgiving.

[jackdaws_master]

The last thing Edward expected from the actor was a fight; he goes down hard, with a startled oath. He kicks out at the other man's legs, more by habit than anything else. "Jaysus, man, are you mad?" is all he has time to say.

You don't talk during a fight. You fight.

[andinfluencepeople]

Chuck avoids the kick, but that doesn't mean it doesn't do its job. Chuck's used to fighting with a steady footing -- on a mat (with bare feet, usually) -- or as a 1.85 kiloton jaeger when ground conditions all but completely irrelevant.

He slips, slamming into the ground. He manages to grab the front of Beckett's shirt, though, aiming a surprisingly controlled punch at his jaw.

[jackdaws_master]

Edward's head snaps back, stars flashing across his vision at the impact. So like every bar brawl he's ever been in, really, which means that the only sensible thing to do is haul off and strike back with all his might in the general direction of the last place he saw the madman's head

[andinfluencepeople]

Chuck's struggling to hold onto Beckett's shirt -- his gloves are made to protect his hands from electrical, chemical, and mechanical damage, not hold onto fabric.

Even trying was probably the wrong idea; Edward's blow slams into Chuck's left cheekbone, sending him sprawling.

That wouldn't be a problem -- a brawl is a brawl, and like hell is Chuck going to let Beckett get the better of him again, especially a Beckett who's weirdly convinced he's some sort of old fashioned pirate.

But this is outside, and there are rocks in the ground, and he's not wearing his helmet.

Thunk.

Chuck groans.

[jackdaws_master]

Edward takes the opportunity to roll the other way, panting a little and getting his vision to stop swimming. Who knew an actor could throw a punch like that? They grow them strong in Holland.

Not, however, strong enough to bounce back from a proper blow right away. The other man's gasping something awful, like he's had the wind knocked out of him. If this were at home and the lunatic had washed up alongside Edward, this would be the point where swords got drawn and fights got permanently ended, before the other man got to his feet again.

But it's not, and the man never drew a weapon on Edward anyway. No need to escalate matters further. Besides, for an actor he's made a hell of a mess of Edward's nose.

"You're just lucky I've got to see to this," he says, gesturing to his nose. "You're on your own from here, mate."

And with that he staggers off into the trees. The lights in the distance can wait.

[andinfluencepeople]

Chuck lies on the ground. Sense returns pretty quickly, but for a long time it hurts to even think about moving.

He slowly sits up after around five minutes, and one hand goes to touch the wound almost instinctively. He flinches, and draws his hand away -- there's blood on the glove, but not much.

Once he can breathe without feeling like he's going to throw up or pass out, he reaches out for his helmet, and stands. He does not want to go into a building (probably full of people, and definitely full of light) with a headache like this, but it's cold and he's looking for the Marshall.

The Marshall. Right. This is his memory, anyway. Chucks snarls quietly, and makes his way towards civilization.