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Call me Out

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Here foundered the Neptune's Lady -- her sails in tatters and her mainmast split. Her crew was spread massacred across the deck, guts spilled and heads smashed. A few cried feebly for their mothers or their lovers or for unavenged wrongs. And their captain -- a woman with wild black hair and a slight figure easily mistaken for a boy's -- was slumped across the wheel. They had all watched her fall, a thick splinter of wood dug deep in her side. And they took a strange comfort in knowing she had died with them.

Except...she hadn't. Hadn't yet, really. For she was no mere captain. No simple human, prone to bleeding out and passing on from such a wound. No -- as twilight settled and as the Dutchman came, Captain Robin Whitby clung to life long after her crew had died. For she was a Slayer, and she wasn't yet ready to pass on her torch.

To mortal men, this ship would long be lost. No crew, good or ill, would come upon the Lady while it still lingered above the waves. The bodies of sailors were flipped over and checked for signs of life. Each time one was checked, a voice would rally back, "Gone, captain" or "Passed on, this one" and so on. All but one, an older man who found a boy bowed over the captain's wheel. Too young to be a captain, the man figured, but still alive. A cabin boy, he would wager.

"This one's still breathing, Captain."

A set of footsteps approach and a man all in black approached. He had no heartbeat and his steps made hardly a sound. When he was standing before the wheel, the older man pulled back the boy by the scruff of 'his' coat, so the captain could see the last living sailor.

The young captain had only one question. "Do you fear death?"

Whitby's head lolled back; she groaned. Her lips parted and she coughed, but thankfully no blood bubbled with her breath. But Christ above and the devil below, did she ever hurt! Searing pain and proof of live deep into her nerves, lighting her up. Making her sigh.

Her eyes found his. A smile twitched on her lips, for she understood who this man was and would take sweet pleasure in denying him another soul. "Darling," she drawled in an accent that might have once been British but had since been muddied by travel, "I am death. Can't hardly fear myself, now, can I?" And with a second cough, she wrestled herself free.

The woman -- for she was undeniably one now that she stood on her own feet and pulled the hair back from her face -- was pressing two fingers most gingerly against her wounded side. Blood stuck her shirt to her skin and her coat to her shirt, but the hole had closed up. Even so, the organs felt tender below. It would take a while, she supposed, to heal fully.

The Captain exchanged looks with the older man who was still keeping her steady. But now that she had been heard, the crew remained wary and concerned.

"A woman," said one of them. "Bad luck to keep her aboard, Captain. Even on the Dutchman."

Another was quick to agree. "Let her die here. You can ferry her soul like the others. There's no need for her to be aboard the ship."

The captain listened, but he shook his head. "The offer remains, darling." He repeated her affectation with no small amount of sarcasm. Dying or dead or even death itself, she belonged to him right now. That was Calypso's law of the ocean. "A hundred years service on the Dutchman or to whatever fate lies before you in the next life."

She continued to behave as though she was barely concerned with the wound -- certainly, this was the case now that she had given it a perfunctory examination and found herself still somewhat-steady.

"How sorry I am to disappoint you lads, but I won't be doing any dying. Not any time soon." But her voice began to die off as she saw further than her own belly. Bloody hell...

"My ship! What the hell've you done to my ship!" Now, she pressed a little more strength into her escape efforts -- keen to barrel herself at the Dutchman's captain. Tackle him, if she must.

The older man fought his best to restrain her, but even this weakened woman was proving to be more than enough for him to hold. All the same, the captain did not flinch of move to defend himself. A finely crafted blade was at his side, but he did not reach for it.

My ship, he pondered. That would make her the captain. He knew better than to smile, but it made him remember fondly the last Pirate King. A woman.

"The Dutchman does not sink ships, miss. Whatever brought your ship to ruin is not of my making."

When the Dutchman's captain made no move to defend himself, she seemingly halted on a dime -- wincing but once -- and opted instead to tap the back of her hand brusquely against his chest. A token gesture. A surrogate slap. Something, it seemed, kept this woman's anger on a leash. Duty or something else.

Something else like the slowly returning memory of what had occurred. Once again, the El Dorado had been snatched out from under her nose. Bollocks.

"And the Dutchman doesn't steal no living person's soul, so you can leave me be. You can run along and get back to cleaning up the messes of more competent people." Oh, she was a tempest. She was a storm. She was cruel and unhappy and a forceful grief for her ship and her crew had taken hold of her.

"You're already dead, captain." Though he knew it would be her last command, he obliged her with one final acknowledgement of her position on this ship. Because this was her ship. And if she commanded him to leave it, he would. Even though he knew what it would mean.

"There will be no ships to rescue you. No escape from this wreck. If I leave you here, you will die. And if you ask me to leave you, it would be a mercy for me to kill you now and save you the suffering of waiting."

In that, his predecessor had shown a small kindness to those who rejected his offer. Davy Jones may have been a monster, but he did not leave men to die slowly on an unforgiving ocean.

"...And if you don't leave me, then I am damned. Hardly a fine choice for a fine woman, is it?"

She spoke as if distracted. As if a dozen other problems were being caused, solved, and caused again in the back of her mind. Scratches on wood or chalk on a slate. Captain Whitby had a busy brain.

"There is no shame in serving the Dutchman," said the older man who had at first picked her up. He spoke with a gravelly, Scottish voice. "The Captain is a good man. He guides the Dutchman nobly. Not like you've heard in the stories. It's as honest work as you'll find."

The captain gave a slightly exasperated look, as if he was embarrassed by what was said about him. Like a child blushing at a mother's praise.

"It's your choice. But you must make it soon. You won't last long like this."

Aha. It was a look she did not miss -- and it perhaps inspired a twinkle in her eye. Hardly a wholesome one, for you could be certain that this pirate was preparing a mental list of every advantage she could take in the future. This old man, it seemed, was a bit of a kiss-arse for the Captain. Poor sod.

"I have to admit," she drawled some more -- the word soon making her slower before it made her faster, "that you have a point. Perhaps. We'll speak on your ship. Your...Dutchman."

But I will not serve.

He remembered how he had boarded the Dutchman. Permitted as a temporary passenger until Jack Sparrow fulfilled the rest of his debt. He had no reservation against her boarding the ship - were she still alive. But she wasn't.

"There is no surgeon on the Dutchman. You will either die on this ship or another unless you make the pact. It's the only way to save yourself."

But he did step forward, placing a hand on her shoulder. For that moment, they were on her ship. The next, they were all on the deck of the Flying Dutchman. It had been a difficult trick to master, but he'd come to master the powers that he drew from Calypso.

Edited 2013-09-11 00:01 (UTC)

"You don't understand, I..."

Oh, what a chill in her bones. Colder than the cold waters in the north pacific. Colder still than death, an agent of whose she claimed to be but only because it sounded a far sight more impressive than trying to be a hero on the high seas. And when they arrived on the Dutchman, she breathed an indignant sigh and stumbled backwards.

It seemed the journey had made her wound feel worse. "Jesus wept. The tales tell it true, then? The Dutchman's captain has queer powers. But where, then, are the tentacles?"

Because as fast as some rumours spread across the Caribbean, a few others spread slowly.

"Gone. You can thank the East India Trading Company for that."

But he did not lament the loss of the Kraken. He wouldn't want control over such a beast. Davy Jones never needed to have it, either.

There was a bench resting against one of the masts that he gestured to, a place where the crew still played games, gambling their years spent on the ship. Though since the new captaincy, the goal was to gain years from others, not to be rid of them. The crew no longer feared the captain more than they did death and thus they were eager to remain alive as long as they could. Even if it meant being on this ship.

"Sit here." He turned to the older man. "Mister Turner. We're leaving. Take us under."

The older man gave a half salute and nod before making his way to the captain's wheel. For the moment, the Dutchman's captain stayed alone with her. If she was going to relent or die, he owed it to her to see it through. After all, he had all the time in the world to wait.

Edited 2013-09-11 00:13 (UTC)

When she sat, she did not do so primly. Her elbows perched on her knees and her feet pointed in angled directions. She sat as the men of this time sat -- not the great and powdered men, but the men of the sea and of the soil. Men of salt and blood and rocks and iron. She'd lived long pretending to be a man and although the jig had been up for some months, some habits simply never died.

Slayers, on the other hand, died rather often. But she was determined to stave off death for at least another day. And counter to all solid logic, her health seemed only to improve as she sat with her back against the mast and her eyes on the ocean.

Eventually, she piped up: "Did you keep them? Any of them? My men?"

"Only one other was alive when I arrived. A man named MacDonald. He's below now."

It was a sad state to find a ship so utterly in ruin and have so few survivors. When two or more signed up for the Dutchman, that small amount of solidarity helped. It gave them the familiarity to cope. For the sake of that crewman, he hoped this woman would agree. But he'd not use tactics like that to coerce her into it.

In the meantime, the ship began to dive beneath the waves. Water threatened to suddenly sweep onto the decks, but it never did. It remained suspended around them, with a bubble of air that extended from the surface of the deck to the top of the sails. Another power that was his to command now.

"MacDonald." Her lips pursed, but she didn't look unhappy. MacDonald was -- had been -- her first mate. In all honesty, this life would probably suit him. He was a man she could never imagine at rest, not even in death. And he was loyal. The Dutchman's captain would find a good sailor in him.

Her attention flitted to the fighting tops as she watched water fail to engulf the ship. But a chill seemed to sink in from the briny depths, through whatever pocket of sorcery kept them dry, and she shivered. Drew her coat tighter around her body.

"...And I suppose you have a name, don't you?"

He did not feel the chill, nor did the sailors under his command. Neither he or them were quite alive and even their skin was cool to the touch. But she was still alive, even if only barely. He went to the edge of the ship, leaning against the railing, leaving mere inches between his back and the water behind held away from them. As they sunk deeper into the water, signs of aquatic life could seen in the water. Deeper still, there was no light save from that of their lanterns, but even that was not enough to show what was in the water beyond them.

For his part, he seemed almost amused at the question. "Most don't ask. They simply assume one identity for me." He shook his head. "But I don't look like a Davy Jones, do I?"

"Certainly not. I've met the man -- once. And he looked nothing like you. Not that I'm complaining."

One could trust a Slayer to flirt with a belly wound. Who could blame her? He was rugged, able, and had a way, it seemed, of dodging her questions which only egged her onwards. "Let me lead by example, then. Robin Whitby," she touched her chest with a thumb to indicate herself. "Captain of the late Neptune's Lady. Rather keen not to be her late Captain in turn."

The name meant little to him, but then, he'd tried not to lead the life of a sailor. He had been content as a blacksmith. So the reputation of sailors and pirates were beyond him. He hadn't even heard of Jack Sparrow until they had met. Something which the pirate had never forgiven him for. But for all her flirting, he was too good natured to flirt back.

"Will Turner. Latest captain of the Flying Dutchman. And curious, as well. Not many survive a meeting with Davy Jones. Not unless they're among this crew. It's a shame you don't intend to be around long enough to tell me about it."

"Nearly didn't."

Survive. She had, in fact, lost an arm to his precious little kraken. But here she sat, two-armed once again. Even her face darkened at the reminder of what foul magicks had been required just to regain an arm. Not her arm, really. But an arm. And so, please excuse her for not reaching out to offer a handshake.

"Will Turner. What a plain name for such an extraordinary man. For you must be anything but ordinary to have succeeded dear old Jonesy."

"I used to be a blacksmith." It was a plain named for a man with a plain career. "But I didn't go looking to take this job, if you're wondering."

There was, of course, a story. Any story that involved Davy Jones was to be an exciting one. But his eyes were on her wound. There was a lot of blood and he was surprised she was not dead already.

"I am wondering--"

But her voice trailed off, for he was eyeing her twice-clothed stomach and she was not half-curious herself about how the site of the wound was faring. Without another word, and despite the submarine chill, she shed her jacket and brazenly hauled the hem of her homespun shirt a good third of the way up her torso. On one side, the skin was torn and gnarled. Bloody, too, but things seemed to have coagulated. The skin had knit together, if not neatly. But...

"The innards are all a mess. Punctured pieces and scrambled guts. The cut is fine, but the damage has been done. You may yet be lucky, Captain Turner, and gain me for yourself before the night is through. I, of course, hope otherwise."

Her smile was rueful.

Will's smile matched hers. It was not cruel or malicious, but he could now see the game she was playing. He recalled the way she had thrown off his father like he'd been nothing at all. Will knew it took a remarkable man to be captain to pirates, but it took an even more extraordinary woman to manage the same thing. But she might be something more than even that. She should be dead. If not by this wound than by her encounter with his predecessor.

"I've not been the captain for long, but you're the first hold out I've ever had." He tilted his head, regarding her eyes instead. "You gave me your name, but you still haven't told me who you are."

She leaned back, letting her smile drop and instead feigning ennui as she tossed an arm over her head and scratched at her ear. Don't let them see you sweat.

"You want to hear my life story, is it? You who only comes at life's end?" It hadn't been his question. Hadn't hardly been near it. "I was born in a pretty house and was given pretty things and sang pretty songs but pretty doesn't count for shite when you're called."

Such an emphasis on that word. Called. At first, she'd kept wearing her pretty dresses all through her training. The lessons. The books. The lectures on vampires and demons and other beasts. But then she'd suffered a second calling, the one she speaks of now: "Blacksmith you may have been, but you must have heard it. The ocean's siren call -- tempting you away."

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