O brave new world

[jackrackham]

a sea-change

Into something rich and strange

The crew tosses smoke shells over into Rogers' ship as they climb up the side, and Jack has a moment to see Anne standing on the railing before she steps down into the growing cloud. His hands twitch at his side and he finds himself moving his jaw for want of something to say—for want of something to do that isn't standing a ship away watching this happen. The success or failure of the attack will be because he told Edward Teach what to do, and he listened.

Something about it don’t feel right, but there ain’t enough to say why. Anne drops down from the gunwale and moves slow and careful among Teach’s vanguard, inching aft and considering the remains. Bodies everywhere: all’s blood and red coats and splintered wood. Teach roams toward the bow, cutting bodies to see who’s breathing. Ain’t right to be this tidy, she thinks; quiet like there’s not a single soul left alive. It don’t feel right, but it ain’t enough to see what’s coming.

He can feel his own heartbeat reverberating against his chest. Rogers cant have been beaten so easily. He's an uninspired man, but he wouldn't have left every man on deck to be slaughtered by canonfire. Rogers would wait for the vanguard. He would want the glory of cutting down the notorious Edward Teach himself to bolster both his ego and his unsteady position back in Nassau.

The ambush floods out quick, men pouring from the forecastle and the hold to swarm the deck. Anne spins around, slashes a marine across the chest and at the back of the leg, bringing him down to his knees.

There are too many men in the ambush. He can see Anne, catches a glint of metal, her hair showing copper through the fading smoke. She's fighting well, but in these odds one well placed blade could end that quickly. Jack takes in a shaky breath. He can't think about that right now. Anne can handle herself. She can.

She has no sense of the scale of what’s unfolding around her; can’t afford to. It’s all what’s right in front of her, what counts for survival of the moment.

His eyes scan the length of the ship and finds Teach, stalking towards Rogers. They're both taking large swings, reckless.

The clash of shouts and metal, the occasional gunshot stinging the air, the sense of seething and turmoil, that’s all background until she needs it, and right now she’s busy driving her blade deep into the marine’s gut, over and over again ‘til he’s not her problem anymore. Next.

Rogers' men seem to be winning out, but things could turn at any moment. His brows furrow as he watches Teach touch his side and then look down at his hand. Was he injured? Jack looks up to the flag, then at the men beneath it. He's ready to surrender, if they need to. Only if they need to. His jaw feels tight. He keeps watching as closely as he can.

She reels around again and jabs at a man reaching for her, but he reaches past and she misses him cleanly, leaving space for him to grab her shoulder. He hoists her up, flips her over, and she’s already reaching for her flintlock as she comes down, ready to plant the shot soon as her back hits the deck.

Jack looks back to find Anne, but he can't see her anymore. A spike of panic pierces his chest like a dagger.

Her back hits water and sand.

“Hunh!” The grunt bursts out of her along with all her breath, and salt-spray hits her tongue as the shock of cold hits the rest of her. Her hand lets go the pistol and reaches up to fend off the man who isn’t there anymore, gone, the man, the noise, the ship, all of it gone.

Between the space of a breath, the vista changes and Jack stumbles as his boots find purchase in soft sand and shallow water. There aren't any boards beneath his feet, and it doesn't make sense. His hat is there, slowly sinking, and he bends slowly to pick it up, shaking the water off as he stands. Dread soaks into his chest, crystallizing his panic rather than quelching it. It is bewilderingly cold and the wind cuts through his jacket like it's not there. The water is the wrong color.

Don’t make sense, can’t be happening. Can’t have gone overboard and couldn’t be on the shore even if she did. The sun is in a different fucking spot in the sky. The air smells wrong, like ocean but wrong.

He lifts his head and looks out at the ocean. What ocean, he doesn't know. He can't spot anything familiar. No ships in sight, no clue what just happened.

"Wh-" He starts, then stops, speechless. He feels frozen to the spot. There's too much here—too much not here to process.

She scrambles up to her feet, casting about for the lost reality of the ambush and the battle, just finds her hat sitting on the sand. Must have fallen. She reaches out for it, fingers trembling almost too bad to pick it up and put it back on her head. Sand stretches out before her, and trees beyond that, and beyond that—

Can’t be happening, can’t, can’t, can’t, and all the impossibility and incomprehension boils up in her gut like sick and her lungs like a scream that won’t quite come out.

As the tide pulls away, the sand beneath his boots shifts with it towards the sea. Jack takes a hasty step back from the sensation of being pulled in, and looks down the length of the beach.

There. A figure, standing in the surf.
Anne. It must be. It has to be.

"Anne!" he yells, already moving towards her, cutting the distance until he can be sure. Her coat, her hat, the color of her hair.

She turns to him and his breath hitches in his throat.

"Anne!" His voice cracks and he stumbles over the sand towards her. He drops his hat onto the sand. He's running.

Comments

[jackrackham]

Anne lunges forward and she has her swords out before he knows what happening. He grabs for her shoulders and keeps his grip light. Normally this would be enough, but now he steps close enough that he can wrap his arms around her if need be. These are extraordinary circumstances and he doesn't know what to expect. She's scared. They both are.

He takes a breath, trying to quiet the sudden pounding of his heart. "Anne. Look at her." Whoever the woman is, she's not a threat at the moment. Her coat is dyed a deep red, her scarf unusual but of good material. She seems like neither someone likely to steal from their pockets nor someone with interests in having them hanged. She looks average, maybe a merchant. He's still cautious. Nothing in this place looks like it should, but for the moment she doesn't look hostile. She looks taken aback by Anne's defensive response, but mostly it seems like she wants to help.

He takes a moment to focus on Anne, making sure that she's backing down. When she does, he squeezes his hands at her shoulders, a reassurance before he drops one hand and rests the other gently at her back.

"I apologize," he starts. "We've had a very taxing-" Morning? Afternoon? The sun's position in the sky still doesn't make sense with what time it was on the ship. "....day. Any enlightenment you can offer about where we are would be very fucking helpful." He hadn't missed that she asked if they'd just arrived, as if it's a normal thing for random people to wander into the city out of places unknown. It's not a good sign.

[andhiswife]

Greta steps back with a startled hoot, her hand flying to her chest as a pair of bloody swords are brandished at her by a snarling woman. She hadn't even noticed the weapons beneath her massive coat. It's only thanks to her work at the Gardens that she doesn't shriek something defensive and probably rude, but all that time around children has trained her to channel fear and panic into matronly disapproval. So she glares at the woman and, with all the authority she can muster, snaps, "There is no cause for that," sounding less as if she's being threatened with bodily harm and more as if she's just caught one child whacking at a younger one with a stick.

The man with her seems a bit less... reactive, calming the woman ('Anne,' apparently) down and explaining enough of their situation to confirm Greta's initial suspicions. Once the swords are put away, Greta relaxes out of her affronted wince and lets her hand drop.

"You're in Darrow," she says, not quite achieving 'calm,' but landing impressively close, all things considered. "It's a city that likes to kidnap people. It did the same to me. I'm Greta Baker." She puts a slight emphasis on her last name, on the off chance these two also come from a world where names and professions tend to line up. She may not be a baker anymore, at least not by profession, but people don't draw swords on bakers, in her experience. It's a respectable trade. She considers the pair with a dubious furrow in her brow, then asks, "Are either of you hurt?"

[annebonny]

Anne knows - right away, she knows - that she's gone too far, barked at someone who ain't a threat and who's offering the help they desperately fucking need. She pulls back the moment Jack touches her, still sharp and tense, the fire burning too hot and sudden to be doused so quickly, but she knows he needs her calm and she trusts his instincts better than her own right now.

What she ain't expecting is the woman's answer. Not a scream or a plea or an attempted retreat, all the things she expects to see when Jack bids her to really look. It's a shout, not of fear or panic but - anger ain't right, it's too precise and purposed for anger. She snaps like she's scolding a brat or a dog, and not even to bid them to piss off. No cause, she says, like she just knows there ain't, and like she knows Anne will listen.

And she's right about that, too. Anne can't answer with anything but sudden limp agreeability, the fire smothered at once, her arms going slack before she slowly sheathes her weapons. She ducks her head down to avoid the woman's face, hunching inward by small degrees, letting Jack handle the conversation.

At a city that likes to kidnap people, she lifts her head again, peering out from under her hat, her mouth set in a grim line. She wants to lash out over that - what the fuck does that mean, who's responsible, how'd it happen - but then the woman, a fucking baker of all things, looks back and asks if they're hurt.

Anne might have thought she'd met this sort of woman once before. The Guthrie cunt never showed fear either, snapped and bit to get what she wanted. But that ain't what this is. This baker's not a stuck-up thing and she's not playing anger like an instrument. She wants to know if they're hurt. Don't make sense.

She sniffs reproachfully and glances away.

[jackrackham]

He doesn't understand precisely what she means when she says that the city itself kidnaps people, but the idea of it feels like a knot tying itself and untying itself over and over in his chest. He knows that he was standing on the deck of a ship and in the space of a moment he was standing on the shore of this place. Darrow. That's not any sort of kidnapping that he is familiar with. This is something much stranger and much worse.

"My name is Jack Rackham." He shifts a step closer and looks down to readjust Anne's coat over his arm. He really should have turned it inside out, he thinks. If he had, maybe it wouldn't have soaked through into the fabric of his shirt. "We're not hurt, though we do require some information. This is..." He looks to his right, down the path that leads to the large strange buildings, the unnatural lights, the strange carriages moving without horses. He doesn't know how to describe it. The place is too strange, too new, too wrong. He crosses his arms, hugging them to himself. "And, if possible, information given indoors."

[andhiswife]

Anne peers at her from beneath the brim of her hat like a stray cat that's cornered itself beneath a bush, and it's hard not to stare back. Greta settles for a few slightly uneasy glances as she spends most of her focus on Jack, and then she nods in sympathetic agreement when he suggests moving all of this indoors.

"Of course. The train station isn't far, and they'll have, er... some things for you, there." The phrase 'welcome packet' hadn't meant anything to her when she'd arrived, and she's guessing it would be much the same for these two. She gestures for them to follow, then starts down the sidewalk at a brisk pace. "The City sort of... prepares for us, which is about as unnerving as it is helpful. You won't want for money or a roof over your heads, at least." And it really is the least Darrow can do, to her way of thinking, though it does feel particularly fortunate as the seasons turn towards winter.

She looks back at the two of them to make sure they're keeping up, but she figures piling more information on them can wait until they've reached the station. Aside from a brief but thorough explanation of how traffic lights work when they get held up waiting to cross an intersection, she saves the chatter for when they reach the station.

It's an immediate improvement when they step inside the station, and Greta lets out a quiet sigh of relief. "Right," she says. "D'you want to sit down somewhere to talk about all this? There's a café, we could get you something hot to drink."

[annebonny]

Anne stays back, watches Jack manage the situation, and waits for him to follow the woman first before coming along. Train station, if that's in fact what she said, don't mean anything to her, and it don't make sense either that there's anything here for them, like they was expected. But that seems like exactly what she's saying. That, and she's talking about them living here. Like this is just their life now.

Her lip curls at the thought, but she keeps her head down and stays close to Jack as they walk, only looking up to take in the immensity and unfamiliarity of it all. The noise and smell is the worst of it all. The air is even worse here, further from the water, and the further into the city the louder it gets. When she finally realizes the cause of it, awful brightly colored things rushing far too fast down a broad road—'cars,' Greta calls them—she has to stop herself from bolting or drawing swords again. It's too much, too loud, too different, and when Greta leads them across the road she only makes it by clutching at Jack's arm the whole way.

Inside the big building she's led them to is not much better, but at least it's warm. She keeps Jack's coat for now, needing the extra barrier against the world, and looks a bit sharply at Greta when she asks if they want to sit.

"We ain't stayin' here," she says, quiet but reproachful. "We can't stay here. Tell us how we get back."

[jackrackham]

Jack follows, keeping Anne at his side as they walk through the city.

He's wary about the possibility of being led into some sort of trap. His hand floats back to the hilt of his sword as his thinks about how Greta said the city has prepared for them, that there are things here for them, that they're going to something called a train station (training station?). It all makes him think that perhaps they've been press-ganged into service of something terrible.

He doesn't trust that they can fight their way out of this, even if that's what his body is urging him to do. Instead, he follows Greta. The lights and cars and the strange objects displayed in the windows of some of the buildings catch his attention and then lose it just as quickly. There's so much here that seems strange or miraculous or outright impossible that it's hard to focus on any one thing for any helpful amount of time.

The station, at least, is warm, but he keeps his hand perched on the hilt of his sword for now, not trusting the comfort to mean anything good. When Anne speaks, he nods. He'd gotten too caught up in the particulars. Anne is asking the most pertinent question. They need to know how to get out of here.

"You speak like staying is a foregone conclusion," he says, wary and tired of not understanding what's going on.

Right now, the battle between Rogers and Teach must be over. Someone has won, and he wasn't there to see it. He wasn't there to help, or face Rogers and hold him responsible. He can't be here and not know whether or not his plan was responsible for the death of Edward Teach.

"Why us? You keep saying the city is responsible, but a city doesn't kidnap people. Surely we're here at someone's behest and they want us for a reason."