Inheritance of Arrogance

I'm back and, once again, out of my mind. I really hope that you don't kill me for my sick, twisted sense of humor, disturbing theories, and a slightly out of character portrayal of Cutler Beckett. But the whole point of this story is to prove that he isn't as much of a cold, heartless bastard as you all thought. Or maybe to prove that he is even more of a sickeningly twisted ass than even the writers suspected. And then there is Veronica, Beckett's daughter. Who inherited all of Beckett's prickly, thorny, cold bastardness, and learned to hone it to an art form in a simple period of eight years. And when Beckett figures out that his son 'Ronni' is actually a female, he utilizes every asset he can lay his grubby fingers on to turn the evil little romp into a young lady. Did I mention that she's eight? And pure evil? Haha… Good luck with that Cutler. Pity the fool he hires to baby-sit.

Abandon all hope, for you have just entered… The Doubt zone: a sixth dimension more mysterious, and possibly more perturbing, than even the Twilight zone.

Chapter Summary: Some stuff about Cutler and his lover, Maria, how they met, some relatively deep stuff about power, the beginnings of their relationship, etc. The revealing of my theory about what 'mark' Jack Sparrow left on Cutler… Please don't kill me for that one. An explanation of how Cutler maybe isn't as evil as we thought, or perhaps how he is the most evil person to ever bear children, short of the devil himself. Veronica doesn't even appear in this chapter, other than a quick mention.

Disclaimer: … What, did you expect me to put something witty here? Think again! I've run out of witty stuff to say.

Prologue:

The slightly shorter than average man slunk ably through the dark streets. At this time of night the only light and sound came from what leaked out of taverns, inns, and houses. Still, he wore a black cloak that covered his entire form, particularly his head. Not as though anyone here would recognise him, in the way that he was dressed at the moment. 'Still,' he thought, 'No harm in taking chances.'

Being in the fairly unfamiliar streets with little light to guide him just made the man terribly confused. This was not helped by the fact that he had downed a few glasses of liquor. All in an attempt to recreate the experience repeated almost every time he came to this port.

Finally he arrived at the familiar alley, which led to a back door of an inn. After striding down to a long corridor, he knocked at the final door on the left, pulling down the hood of his cloak. A pretty woman with faintly auburn hair (it was all fuzz though, held in a ponytail with no rhyme or reason to it) opened the door, looking flustered. Upon seeing the man's face she relaxed and threw her arms around his neck. She was dressed in a chemise, with a shift underneath of that.

"Oh Cutler," she gushed softly, burying her face in his neck. "I thought that you might never come back. I just sent Ronni off to bed an hour or two ago. Why did you not come sooner?"

Cutler Beckett (perhaps not the Honourable Cutler Beckett that many of you know of, after all) wearing no powdered wig, and only a simple white shirt and breeches (plus the essential socks, shoes, and pants, of course) under his cloak felt rather naked. To cover his discomfort he planted her with a swift kiss. He relished the warmth of her touch, though her hands were by far rougher than his. His heart, normally frigid and unfeeling, pounded passionately in his ears at the notion of her wanting him- no, needing him- even after a bit over five years apart. Despite him never having seen their child.

"Work, darling. I am a busy man. But I am here now, only for you. There is no other woman whom I would ever care so dearly for, Maria."

Cutler's voice, known to be steely and cold, was surprisingly gentle and- no, I daren't suggest it, the very notion makes me retch- sensual? He actually loved this woman, and if they had lived in another time, if he had been another man, he might have married her. But she was not a commonfellow, and he couldn't marry someone of her status for love, because it just wasn't done.

"In another life, my dear Maria," he would often whisper to her. "In another life I will find you again, and we will be properly married. Be patient, my pet."

Returning to the scene we had been addressing prior to the snippet of interruption. I apologise in advance for any other mindless birdwalks.

Still standing in the corridor, Maria looked up at him, her eyes reflecting her inner fear, her deep-seated need for his touch and his presence. How she depended on him, how she needed him.

"How am I to know if you still love me, when I don't see you for years?"

Oh, and how he so desperately needed her back, to feel power, to dominate her and own her body. The power she gave him… sating his predatory hunger. Despite all of this, she could be fragile, and he tried to behave as though she were glass. But he was human (sometimes even inhuman) and he made mistakes.

"My letters," he replied snappishly, slightly annoyed. He made sure that she always received them.

Not wanting to be caught outside, they hurried into Maria's room. By this time the auburn-haired woman was upset. Her green eyes darkened with a sadness that Cutler could not name, and her lips pursed very faintly.

"My apologies, Mr. Beckett, but I cannot read- if you will recall." Her voice was calm, but laced with her unhappiness, both at this fact, and at her love for not remembering. Beckett regretted his words almost instantaneously.

"Maria, I'm sorry. I- well, I forgot. Please forgive me; I haven't seen you in so long…" As his voice grew quiet and trailed away, it also became more desperate. He knew very well how to manipulate the emotions of his lover to get what he wanted. Maria turned away from the room's only light source, a candle, after gently blowing it out. Her pretty face was slightly twisted in thought, and she felt immediate pity for the father of her only child.

"If you'd like to stay the night, you can meet Ronni in the morning," she finally said, heaving a sigh. "And as for your little mistake…"

Cutler shivered at her slight touch, as her warm fingers played across the skin of his face. He hadn't even noticed her coming closer to him so quickly. It was too dark to see, but he knew that in the near pitch blackness, his lover smiled wickedly.

"As for that, you will have to make that up to me in other aspects. That is, if one thing leads to another in the way that it often does."

Beckett returned the smile, wrapping his arm deftly around her waist. Giving her ear a small nibble made her squirm in his grasp. This was power, the kind that he lived for, but so often lacked. The ability to make someone do whatever he pleased, using only a simply action or movement. And it, undeniably, was the greatest feeling he could imagine. While it lasted, he would drink up every morsel of power.

"When does it not, my pet?"

(AN: I really didn't like that last part. It was really awkward to write. For the record, there is sex, but I'm not going to write it. I will imply it and hint it, and even show proof of it happening in future chapters, but I'm not writing anything explicit. At this point, the reasoning that I had for mixing the terms 'sex' and 'Cutler Beckett' are beyond me.)

-Flashing back to 10 years earlier-

(AN: I tell in here that Beckett has a drinking problem. I have decided that he has quit and switched to tea by the second movie.)

Cutler Beckett, wigless in public for the first time in a long time, sat in a pub, head down on the bar. By this point he was very much drunk, in an attempt to drown his painful humiliation in intoxicating liquor. He had just recently been promoted to Chairman of the E.I.T.C, and he felt as if he had failed his title and his company. If a person came very close to him and listened carefully, they might have heard him whispering to himself.

"Worst… week… ever. I hate my job, I hate my life. I detest Jack Sparrow, and I wish the both of us were dead. Worst… week… ever."

The monotonous chanting went on for a while, in a drunken slur that tainted his normally clipped and proper speech. It would have gone on longer if the barmaid who had been listening in on the entire chants hadn't snapped him with a wet rag. Backett raised his heavy head, one eyebrow quirked. He met her eyes with his steel intensity, but she returned it aptly, his stare being softened and blurred by alcohol. Once his head was fully up, the barmaid lowered her eyes and began wiping the spot where Cutler's head had been resting with the wet rag. Her inquisitive gaze was hidden from view by a fringe of auburn bangs that escaped her up-do.

So Cutler, having had his spot momentarily taken away, put his head in his hands and resumed his self-pity chant. The barmaid slammed the rag down and stood up to her full height, (a not-so-daunting 5'4") hands on her hips.

"What is the matter with you? You've been going on the entire night like some loony. What excuse do you have for that?"

He was surprised, and his jaw dropped a bit at her impertinence. Standing up to lean over the bar at her, his mouth twisted into a cold sneer, and his eyes leered dangerously.

"I am drunk because I am miserable. This has been the most ridiculously humiliating week of my career; I'm sure a busybody like you would want to know why."

Cutler rolled his eyes, picking up his drink to take another hearty gulp. The woman's hand snatched it away from him. A miserable drunk like this one always struck her interest.

"Yes sir. I would like to know why. That is, if you don't drink yourself to death first."

Issuing a challenge to him, which went, for the most part, ignored. As though he didn't hear her, he reached out for his drink with groping hands. His eyes were full of fear at the prospect of his only form of escape stolen from his grasp. They just wouldn't let him forget and drown himself in pity, would they?

"Give that back! I order you to return that rum to me this instant!"

The woman only smirked at his desperation. "It must have been nightmarish for you. Terribly humiliating, I can tell." Now that she began to think about it, her cruel smirk softened a bit in sympathy. Beckett sat back down and sighed. There was no way to escape, it would seem, from the memories that tortured him.

"It all started when I learned that Jack Sparrow, a merchant sailor whom I had employed to deliver a cargo of slaves to the Americas, had turned around, and was now sailing back to Africa to return them. We chased him down and sunk his ship. I personally branded him a pirate… then it happened."

He paused a moment to shudder. The only reason he was even telling her any of this was because of how drunk he was.

"You see, Miss…"

"Maria Brand."

"Ah, yes. You see, Miss Brand, when I get very upset, I begin to drink in excess. It is a high-viced habit, and I realize this with great shame. Well, I was very much perturbed by the entire incident, so once I had returned to a suitable port, I put on this very same 'disguise,' (you don't think I dress like this all the time, do you? I have a wig too, it's very nice.) and began perpotating. And, coincidentally enough, Mr. Sparrow was also there. By the time we saw each other we were drunk enough to not properly recognise each other. Or, perhaps he recognised me and pretended otherwise to seek his revenge.

"We greeted one another like old friends. (Imagine that- me, friends with that dirty whoreson!) I ordered another drink for us both. Apparently one thing led to another very quickly, because the next thing I remember after that was waking up just before dawn to find myself entirely naked, encased in the man's arms. I had too big a headache to do a thing about that terrific ((AN: in the 18th century, terrific meant bad)) incident. When I next awoke it was nearly noon, and that wantwit had stolen five pounds sterling from my very pockets! And he left a note…"

By now he was sobering up a bit, and his face revealed how mortifying the whole ordeal was for him. He took a few moments to frantically root through his pocket until he produced a scrap of parchment. Maria, however, did not know how to read. Instead she blankly stared at the scrawled writing, unblinking.

"Er… I can't read the handwriting. What does it say?"

With a slight skinquake, Cutler softly read the words.

"You've left your mark on my skin. Now I have left mine. Be glad that you are still able to produce offspring, as I have recently proved. Next time we encounter, you may not be so lucky. Signed- Captain Jack Sparrow."

"Can I please have my rum back?" He warbled miserably.

Maria consented, nodding thoughtfully. Jack Sparrow… He seemed a man for whom taking away others' power was what made him who he was. This man before her was made who he was by having power over others, and maintaining a cold, cruel demeanor. Having the upper hand over everyone, and being the slyest in the metaphorical room. Having his power taken away without warning (or his rum, for that matter) threw him into a blind panic. He absolutely fascinated her.

"You need… power. The ability to assert yourself in a situation. He took away your control, and now you're a poor little wretch. What is your name?"

He glanced from his drink and set the bottle down. "The Honourable Cutler Beckett, Chairman of the East India Trading Company at your service."

"Well, Cutler Beckett…" She paused, trying to hide the wicked smirk that insisted on crawling onto her face. "Perhaps the key to having your power back is through what has taken it away."

'What am I suggesting?' Maria thought nervously. 'Although it isn't as if he isn't good-looking. Maybe even handsome in better lighting. And he is a fascinating man. Besides, it isn't as though the drunkard will ever come back. It couldn't hurt to mend one broken ego.'

"What are you suggesting?" Beckett drunkenly echoed her thoughts.

She bit her lip in thought. "Whatever might happen when one thing…"

She lightly touched his hand.

"Leads to…"

She slid her hand up his arm, then ran her fingers through his mussed brown hair.

"Another," this last word was a delicate whisper.

Her fingertips brushed his face, dancing across his clean-shaven and smooth skin. He was speechless, cornered by his drunken lust and his thirst for power. Maria would allow him- maybe just for this once- to have complete power over her body, without even considering the consequence for over a minute. For the first time in his life, Cutler Beckett foolishly believed that he had caught himself falling in love. And indeed he would grow to love her truly, one day. But that day would come too late.

"I can leave this rathole anytime that I please. Nobody will even notice that I'm gone."

Beckett took her hand and kissed it lightly.

"I would notice, Maria, if you departed without me now," he slurred, smiling slyly. He had her now, and he would do anything he could to keep it that way.

That day, a new side of Cutler began to develop. A side that only one woman would ever see. And though he would always lust for power and ultimate control, that single woman would satisfy his craving and sate him with her touch. It was never really about love from the beginning. It was never about love at all. It was a spark of power that ignited to a flame that would fuel the passionate affair between them. But love? Oh no, they were simply fooling themselves about that.

Please don't murder me. If you would like to do the next best thing and spam me with reviews and hate PMs, feel free. Just don't kill me. Review, my kittens, for I would like feedback from my wonderful audience! My story can be categorized into three categories for three different types of readers:

1. Just plain strange: This would be the average reader or a fangirl of characters that have not yet appeared or are mentioned in the story.

2. Disturbing: This would be a die-hard fan of PotC, or a fangirl of Cutler, Jack, or both.

3. Sexy: Because I know that some of you weirdoes actually like to read this stuff. No, I'm just joking. Nobody likes to read this stuff. But if you do, you are a weirdo.

Thank you, my kittens, and I shall see you next time!

- The Lady Doubt de Chagny