The situation was abnormal from the start, and McClintock should have known.

When he relived the situation in hindsight, he made all the right decisions. They weren't hard ones, after all, and if he'd had a lick of sense for just a few moments, then Jack Sparrow would have been well on his way to the gallows by now. Instead, he was in hot water, the infamous pirate was running free, and there were rumors going around that McClintock had turned a blind eye to the escape in exchange for a prostitute's services.

That couldn't be further than the truth.

The truth didn't matter. No matter what he said, the story ended the same. The infamous Captain Sparrow had eluded authorities for years and now, at the very last moment, he'd escaped yet again. No matter how he spun it, McClintock was at fault. The authorities, he was sure, would see it the same way.

In spite of himself, he couldn't help but agree with them. He should have known from the moment he set eyes on that women that she was in contempt with proper English society. She might have had all her petticoats and her gown and figure in order, and she might have been done up like a lady set for a ball, but he should have known something was off about her. It was a small, thing, but it spoke volumes. It was the hair. It was a fiery Scottish red that fell in loose curls where they weren't pinned. She must have been the only girl on Port Royal who didn't dye the red to a more appropriate brown or black, or at least lighten it. No proper lady would allow a blemish like red hair to stain her appearance, but in the moment, he'd allowed it to charm him; somehow, that slight rebelliousness had seemed almost provocative.

"I know it's, ah, completely inappropriate," the woman had said in a soft, becoming voice. Her face flushed a little. "Only, you see, I'm so curious. I've heard that you managed to catch some wicked knave and that he's to hang tomorrow. And, well, I'd just like to see him in person."

"You'll see him hang tomorrow," McClintock had replied, unmoved, but he heard it: you captured the pirate. "It'll be much more entertaining than going down there, miss. Now move along."

The woman frowned and blushed again. She looked embarrassed at her curiosity and wrung her hands. Then she peered up at him through a veil of thin, almost blonde eyelashes. "I understand. And I'm truly sorry, sir. I'm just so curious." And then, just as he was about to tell her to scram a second time, she reached into her shawl and pulled out a small burlap bag. It jingled beautifully. "So… might I offer you something? Just for a few moments down there. I imagine it'll be like visiting a menagerie."

His eyes were drawn from the bag of coins to her face and then back. He'd denied her out of a sense of duty, but the promise of money did more than enough to loosen his inhibitions. After all, people went down to gawk at prisoners all the time, usually under the guise of bringing them charitable aid. The only difference here was the hour, and that the lady was being transparent; was there really any harm in it?

"You're quite right, miss," he said, snatching the bag from her hands and glancing quickly back at the carriage she'd left. The driver was noticeably looking the other way; he was either her employee or had been paid off. No risk at all. "Go on down. I'll give you five minutes."

Her smile was bright; the combination of her red hair and glittering eyes in the torchlight made her look almost devilish. At the time, he'd thought it appropriate since, technically, her trip to the prison was less than legal; now he thought it fitting for entirely different reasons. But he'd brushed it aside and gestured at the entryway.

"Actually, would you be willing to lead me, sir? Only I'd feel much safer with you there." The words were spoken in a nervous rush.

Once again, McClintock's ego was stroked. He'd glanced up and down the street before nodding. "Of course. Right this way."

The stairway was narrow and dimly lit; he could hear only the sounds up her wide skirt catching the wall and frowned. He could hardly send her away with her gown torn to shreds. Besides that, it was a little odd that she wasn't raising a fuss about it. The dragging of the gown continued, and he registered dimly that he couldn't make out the sounds of her footsteps. Unusual because ladies often wore heeled shoes.

Almost in spite of himself, he turned to say something about the state of the dress. He didn't get the chance. McClintock registered nothing but a blur of darkness, a shadow blocking the torchlight. They'd just reached the bottom of the stairs. The pain in the back of his head was enormous. Though he hadn't far to fall, he hit the ground hard and with a groan.

The lady didn't make a sound. Instead, he heard her gown drag a final time as she exited the staircase. He needed to raise the alarm, but he couldn't move or speak; McClintock was powerless to do anything but watch blacks dots infect his vision from all sides.

The last thing he'd seen, or at least the last thing he remembered, was the nameless lady passing by. At the time, he'd been too stunned to think anything.

Now, though, he couldn't unsee the blurry image of two bare feet.

Several Days Earlier

The last time Will recalled being in a place like this was far enough in the past that the details were scarce. It was years before, when Brown's drinking had just started to become more than a harmless habit, and he'd taken his apprentice to the pub for a "quick drink" while running errands in town. The pub had a sweaty, hot smell somehow different than the forge, perhaps because the heat came from a crowd of warm, drunk bodies rather than a raging flame. It was noisy and, at the time, it was strikingly vulgar that adult men would act the way they had in a public.

The little pub in Port Royal was an upright establishment in comparison to what was, apparently, the best bar in Tortuga.

The tavern Jack had led him into was no better on the inside than it was outside. It was full of scantily clad women who were obviously prostitutes, some of them performing vulgarities right in the open. The entire place reeked of every form of the drink imaginable, and the few patrons not involved in the massive bar brawl were either part of the band or looked ready to collapse out of drunkenness. None of them, not even the boisterous ones beating the stuffing out of each other in the center of the room, looked like fit candidates to be members of a well-disciplined crew—or, indeed, any crew at all.

"First things first," said Jack, "rum."

Will rolled his eyes and had to bite back a smart comment. He itched to say that they weren't here to drink, but the last thing he needed was to put himself even more at odds with the man meant to lead him to Elizabeth. Jack had already threatened him twice, and though Will was confident in his ability to defend himself, Jack was a kind of character that he was ill prepared to handle. If Will challenged him a third time, and the third time really was the charm, there was no telling if the clearly slightly insane Jack Sparrow would even give him the chance to defend himself.

Of course, Will was quickly learning to keep his guard up.

Jack rushed them toward the bar, where some of the peaceful few sat and drank large metal mugs of drink. One of them sat with a woman nestled between his legs; Will looked away. He thought he heard Jack laughing at him, but given the noise, it might have been anyone. Slightly inflamed, he turned to glare at Jack. But it must not have been him; the pirate was preoccupied. Sparrow stared at the back of someone sitting at the bar. His eyes were comically wide with recognition and unrestrained surprise. Will decided, recalling the look on Jack's face when the two slapping women had first approached them, that this surprise was either less pleasant or more obviously chancy.

It was almost as if he expected to be slapped this time.

And perhaps the pirate was thinking something of a similar kind, because he grabbed Will's arm and manhandled him a few steps backwards. "Wait, wait—wait—wait—wait—wait." He sounded very out of breath, and was quiet enough that the person likely wouldn't hear him over the harmony of wailing, singing, screaming, and other assorted noises. "Do not—don't say a word."

Will was almost as annoyed as he was confused. Affronted, he removed his arm from Jack's person and asked, "Jack, who is that?"

ack, who had taken a few steps forward, turned and held up a single finger in a patronizing gesture. "Not a word. Come on."

Will shook his head and followed the pirate to the bar. This was obviously a pirate port; why on earth would Jack, who'd brought them here in the first place, be nervous about seeing another pirate? Unless this really was another… female partner of Jack's. Three at one port?

"Get me a drink. Two of them, actually," Jack said, sliding into a spot just over a foot away from the stranger. "Rum for Quinn and I here. Quinn."

As Will slid into the empty space on Jack's other side, the stranger turned. And, as William had predicted, it was a woman.

The woman he'd spoken to—the one with whom he was undoubtedly familiar—was stunningly different from the other women. So much so, in fact, that Will found himself doubting that the association between the two was even remotely similar to that of the others. (Given Jack's character, though, he could hardly have been surprised either way.) If not for the fact that her femininity was tarnished by her lower half (for she wore stockings tied below the knee as was custom, dirty as they were, but with short grey-brown breeches as an aging boy might wear instead of the skirt that was proper), he might have thought she was modest. Though her long legs were practically on display, she was otherwise prudish in that every inch of skin that could possibly be covered was covered. On her feet were old shoes of a questionable hue that seemed to blend with the black of her stockings, and her shirt was worn to a dark gray in the elbows and chest. In some places, it was stitched with threads of varying shades of white. She wore a kerchief of mottled blue around her neck, and her hair—which seemed to be some dark, dirty red—hung in tangled waves around her face. Her skin was oddly pale, even in her mouth, and her eyes were a watery, dead grey not unlike puddles of rainwater. A thin, pale scar ran from the middle of her left cheek, across her mouth, and halfway to the tip of her chin.

"Captain Sparrow," said Quinn, deadpan, tilting her head a little before lifting the mug already in front of her and guzzling whatever remained in it. She set the mug back in front of her only for it to be filled by the bartender by the same amber liquid that filled Jack's. "I heard you stole a boat."

"Pleasure seeing you too," Jack said, and though Will could not see exactly what was going on, he was sure that Jack was smiling the same gold-toothed smile he himself had received a few times. "I'm looking to recruit a crew."

Quinn took a long drink of rum, her head leaning back as she gulped it down in a most unladylike fashion. "So you've finally acquired a boat that actually necessitates a crew," she commented, though her voice was so even that he wasn't sure whether she aimed to tease or to start a fight.

"Ship," Jack corrected, sounding almost offended.

"Ship," Quinn agreed. "You're looking for Gibbs, then. He's sleeping with the pigs."

"Really?" Jack asked, sounding unsurprised at this bit of news. Who's Gibbs? "What draws you to Tortuga, then, luv? It's not the women, surely."

The women took another gulp of rum, raising her eyebrows at him over the glass. "What's it to you, Captain Sparrow?"

"Are you here on business?" the pirate pressed.

"No," she answered dryly, and Will decided that rather brought back the issue of the original question of what had brought her to this hovel. Evidently she wasn't from Tortuga, then. And what business could a woman have that would bring her here, of all places? Aside from the obvious.

"Good," Jack said, sounding rather satisfied and apparently less curious than Will was. Although he'd apparently known the woman before, so perhaps he'd already made a guess as to her reasoning. "If business is slow, you might join me awhile to fill the void." Will frowned. Now he was inviting a woman to join them on their voyage? Certainly it isn't appropriate when such dangerous trials are ahead…

Another drink. "Who's your friend over there?"

Jack didn't even glance back at Will, instead waving his free hand in a gesture that was almost insultingly passive. "Ah, this is Mr. William Turner, who's commissioned me to help him recapture his sweetheart from the vile grasp of the crew of the Black Pearl," he said, conveniently failing to mention that Will had broken him out of prison the night before his scheduled hanging in order to invoke this favor.

Once again, the woman raised her eyebrows before taking another drink. "Pleasure, Mr. Turner," she said, nodding in his general direction.

"And you, Miss… Quinn?" he replied hesitantly, and she nodded.

"That's certainly a heroic venture," Quinn noted, apparently back to Jack. "Almost seems out of character."

"Almost," Jack agreed, not even making an attempt to defend his honor as a man.

Quinn nodded in what was seemingly understanding. "Ah. Well, excellent job, Mr. Turner. Keep Jack from sinking his new boat and he'll be indebted to you for life."

"Oi!" Jack protested, and Will laughed at his expense almost in spite of himself. "I'll have you know that I have no intention of sinking this ship, especially since there's so much to be gained."

"And if you're going after the Pearl, even more to be lost," Quinn cautioned evenly. "More rum for the two of us, bartender. And one for Mr. Turner over there."

"Thank you, Miss Quinn," Will said, although he'd never had much rum in his life, or really much to drink at all. Actually, have I ever tried rum at all? It seemed that he'd been doomed to embarrass himself.

"You're a real friend, Quinn," proclaimed Jack as his mug was refilled.

"It's only polite, Captain Sparrow," the woman replied, brushing a tangled lock of hair out of her face. "So, Mr. Turner, how did you meet Jack here? Did he follow you home?"

Someone entirely apart from the conversation let out a snort, and Jack let out another noise of protest. It was hard not to grin at her scathing remarks, given that he was holding back his own choice words, but it seemed inappropriate to do any more laughing than he already had until Elizabeth was rescued. Then, he wondered exactly how much it would be appropriate to divulge. The woman had not returned Jack's declaration of friendship, but all the same, they were at least acquainted. Would it be wise to mention that he'd broken Jack out of prison? Probably not, given that it was largely his fault the man had been in such a compromising position in the first place. No, he's a pirate. He earned his place at the gallows. "Not at all, Miss Quinn. I had the ill fortune of discovering his talent in a fight and wanted him as an ally in the quest to recover Miss Swann. We reached an accord."

"Miss Swann? Swann is the name of some governor or another, is it not?" Quinn reckoned, and set down her mug, having apparently drained it already.

"You see, Quinn, there's favor to be won," Jack remarked, and Will could hear the sly grin in his voice again.

"Among other things," she replied, setting several coins on the bar in front of her.

Will hesitantly took a long drink of rum and missed a portion of the conversation for all his coughing. It was what one might call an acquired taste, and it burned unpleasantly at the back of his throat.

"So, what say you join us, Quinn?" Will heard Jack asking as he recovered.

He turned back towards the woman, whose pale hands were on the counter as she pushed back the barstool and stood. She was on the tall side and somehow more imposing now, even when her absent eyes were turned away. "I'm not entirely sure why you're trying to recruit me, Captain Sparrow."

Jack looked contemplative, but not for long. "You're well accomplished at working under pressure," he pointed out, taking a swig of the rum."

She stared Jack down, but he didn't give. Then, finally, she said, "What I'm not is an accomplished sailor."

"Call it a learning experience," Jack suggested with a smirk.

Quinn seemed to give this only a second's thought before she rolled her eyes. "Certainly not, Captain Sparrow. Good luck." And with that, she wandered away, disappearing into a thick crowd of men coming through the door, and miraculously exiting the tavern without being slapped on the rear or being made subject of some lewd joke by someone she passed.

Jack seemed marvelously unsurprised at the outcome of this conversation. "Bugger," he said. "Well, it was worth a try. Hurry up, lad—we'll need buckets."

It was only that the pirate, too, sauntered off and the bartender pointed stopped wiping the counter with his dirty rag that Will realized he was now expected to foot Jack's portion of the bill.

A few moments later, when he had caught up, feeling irate once again. He scowled at Jack's retreating back. "Who was that?"

Jack glanced about, and Will wondered whether it was for buckets or eavesdroppers. "Old friend of mine—nobody really."

Will raised his eyebrows in disbelief as they set off towards the side of a building. He could see a water pump and buckets now. "You went to a lot of effort trying to persuade that nobody to join the crew."

"You seem awfully interested for someone who's already got a girl of his own," Jack said, handing him a bucket full of water and then filling him one of his own.

"It isn't—" Will sighed and shook his head. "I'm only curious. Why did you ask her to join us if she's a friend of yours? Didn't you say this would be incredibly dangerous?"

"I did," Jack agreed. "Quinn's got a certain… demeanor about her. She wouldn't hurt."

"What do you mean?" Will asked, carting his bucket after Jack and into a faint;y worse stench.

"Doesn't matter," Jack answered. "She'll not be coming with us anyways."

The crew Jack had assembled by the next morning didn't do much to bolster Will's confidence.

The sun shone brightly on Tortuga that morning. The sea was beautiful and the air smelled miraculously clear, something that Will hoped was a good omen of the trip to come. Still, it was hard to convince himself of that at all, especially once he and Jack got closer to the ragtag team of men Gibbs had procured to crew the Interceptor. They, unlike the weather, looked less than promising.

There were old men; a thin, pale man; men that had obviously never worked in their lives; and a very short man whose head didn't quite reach Will's waist. Though Will felt so determined in his mission that he knew nothing could stop him from retrieving Elizabeth, he also felt that he was seeing the first of many barriers. It wasn't enough to make him give up, but it was definitely enough to give him pause.

He had beat Jack onto the dock in his haste, but Jack and Gibbs were close behind. He heard them step onto the boards a distance away, wood creaking with each movement forward. Otherwise, it was quiet. Whether this was because Jack was looking the crew over or because he was disappointed was a mystery to Will; he could hardly take his eyes of the motley bunch.

"Feast your eyes, Cap'n!" Gibbs cried out finally, starting at the end of the line and walking past a number of the new crew members. All of 'em faithful hands before the mast, every man worth his salt." They stopped in front of the dwarf and Will approached him, investigating the small person with both curiosity and dread (as Jack was doing the same anyways). The man stared evenly up at them, unintimidated. Will gave him a little credit, but still, what good would he be in a swordfight? "And crazy to boot."

"So this," Will began, feeling that the optimism was rather uncalled for, "is your able-bodied crew." He scanned the line of sailors again and tried to recall the last time he'd prayed, just in case he should have to in the near future. He was actually rather stunned at the shape of this bunch, as well as the fact that they actually had the nerve to present themselves as sailors willing to take on a ship whose legend was so apparently feared as that of the Black Pearl.

Gibbs apparently did not have an answer, and Jack looked skeptical but not hopeless. Maybe they had a fool's chance. Maybe. Elizabeth's life was reliant upon this. If what Jack had said about the Isla de Muerta was true, and the Black Pearl was really headed that way, the Commodore would never find her. The Captain took a few slow, careful steps forward before coming to a halt by an old man with a colorful bird perched on his shoulder. "You, sailor!" Jack called, loud enough for the entire crew to hear. The parrot ruffled its feathers.

"Cotton, sir," Gibbs told him.

"Mr. Cotton," said Jack, taking a step closer to the man, who met his eyes and seemed rather alarmed at the whole ordeal. "Do you have the courage and fortitude to follow orders and stay true in the face of danger and almost certain death?"

Good question, Will thought, taking in the apparent weakness of some of the crew.

There was only resounding silence.

"Mr. Cotton!" Jack yelled, louder this time, sounding rather frustrated as the old man glanced at Gibbs. "Answer, man."

Gibbs walked up to Jack's side. "Eh, he's a mute, sir," he informed them, and received a look from Jack in return. "Poor devil had his tongue cut out, so he trained the parrot to talk for him." At some point, Mr. Cotton had opened his mouth to reveal a set of yellowed, decaying teeth and a tongue that ended squarely and abruptly where it should not. Will felt his stomach turn and raised an eyebrow, while also noticing that Jack looked entirely repulsed. The captain had leaned back in disgust and his face had childishly contorted. tongue sticking out—Will was quickly learning that childish antics were custom of the pirate. "No one's yet figured how."

Jack took a moment to recover from his disgust, sucking in a breath and then turning back to Cotton, or Cotton's bird. "Mr. Cotton's… parrot," he said, addressing the parrot, and probably feeling a bit ridiculous, "same question."

The parrot replied enthusiastically. "Awk! Wind in the sails! Wind in the sails!"

Another brief moment of silence passed before Gibbs intervened. "Mostly we figure that means 'yes'."

"'Course it does," Jack agreed with certainty that was, to Will, unconvincing. "Satisfied?"

No, Will thought, caught off guard. He shook his head and sighed. "Well, you've proved they're mad."

Jack did not deny this, and scanned the crew again. "Hm," he said, and Will wondered if he had actually managed to bother him. But when he turned, the captain actually looked confident and a little please before he turned his head to a new, sudden speaker.

"And what's the benefit for us?" asked a voice that was undeniably female coming from the opposite end of the line. Another woman? Will thought, feeling almost scandalized.

The captain wandered towards the woman, ducking his head as he went to peer under the large hat that covered her face and head. With a grimace—he's going to be slapped again—he lifted the hat, revealing a pretty, petite, Negro girl wearing a faded yellow bandana. "Anamaria," he said, grinning at her. He sounded almost tired at this point, and though he looked displeased by the slap that so inevitably came, he was at least prepared for it.

"I suppose you didn't deserve that one either?" Will asked, keeping the sarcasm in his tone subtle and trying hard not to smirk.

"No, that one I deserved," Jack admitted, looking a bit guilty, while the woman behind him gave the back of his head an ill-meaning, sardonic smile.

"You stole—my—boat!" Anamaria snapped.

"Actually—" Jack managed to say before his head and neck spun to the side with the force of another slap. Based off the face he was making, it hurt, too. "Borrowed! Borrowed without permission! But with every intention of bringing it back."

"But you didn't!" she snapped again, and Jack shifted back slightly.

"You'll get another one!" he offered weakly.

"I will," Annamaria agreed furiously, sticking a chiding finger in his face.

"A better one," Will pitched in, remembering a certain comment about leverage the night before, feeling frustrated that he had no idea what it was supposed to mean, and feeling the need to… help.

"A better one!" Jack echoed.

"That one," Will offered, pointing around Jack to the Interceptor.

"What one?" the pirate asked, alarmed, and Will nodded in the direction of the ship. "That one?" In fact, every head turned towards the ship and then back to Jack, who seemed, at the very least, irritated. "Aye, that one," Jack agreed finally to Anamaria. The woman lifted her fingers to her lips as she examined the ship from a distance. "What say you?"

"Aye!" replied Anamaria and the rest of the crew in a cacophony of sound. And it was from that sound that Will picked out a second, female voice. A dry one. And down the row, a slightly amused smile on pale, scarred lips.

Quinn had apparently experienced a change of heart.

The crew hurried away, Quinn with them, and Anamaria jerked her hat back, leaving Jack startled. As she walked off, Gibbs, who Will supposed was the first mate, stared at her retreating back for a moment. He turned back to Jack. "No, no, no, no, no," he protested, "it's frightful bad luck to bring a woman aboard, sir."

It was obvious enough after their meeting the night before that Gibbs was a bit superstitious, so Will was mostly unsurprised by this, but he was stricken by the fact that he had only mention one woman, singular. Had Quinn snuck on? He supposed that Anamaria must have, but she'd also made an effort to disguise herself as a man by hiding her more feminine features and pulling her long hair into the confines of her hat.

Once again, Jack was making a face (possibly imagining the wrath of Anamaria if he attempted to bar her from the voyage. "It'd be far worse not to have her," he reckoned, and walked away in the general direction of the rowboats that would take them back to the ship. The entire crew—it wasn't really a large crew anyways—fit into three of them, although they were probably a little more crowded than they should have been. In the Caribbean heat, the men already smelled slightly of sweat if they hadn't before, and on the small boats, it was dense in the air. Will was glad to reach the Interceptor in a matter of minutes, where the crew immediately got to business, scattering across the vessel and waiting for orders as the captain himself boarded.

The crew was definitely a ragtag one, but they got the job done, and soon the Interceptor parted the waters smoothly and with ease as they approached Isla de Muerta and—more importantly—Elizabeth.

The men chatted as they worked, hauling barrels and crates of supplies below decks or tying sails or otherwise working. Anamaria was nowhere to be seen, but Quinn was carrying a crate of something that looked like plantains. In fact, he seemed to recall Jack holding one earlier, and wondered if he had sent Anamaria away to cook it. The woman was obviously… feisty; wouldn't she take that as an insult?

"Do you need some help with that, Miss Quinn?" he offered, seeing the strain of the muscles in her forearm as she hefted the box down the stairs.

"Not at all, Mr. Turner," Quinn answered.

"Why'd you decide to come?" he asked. "I thought you intended to stay on the island."

Quinn pursed her lips and set down the crate, then headed back up. "I did, initially. Tortuga has a certain charm to it, but it was growing dull."

A certain charm? He couldn't see any charm in Tortuga for a woman. For an unruly man, there were women and bars and fights to engage. But the only woman besides Quinn on the island had seemingly been prostitutes. And perhaps that Anamaria had been some kind of fisherman. But for Quinn? She hadn't the hands of a fisherman—not visibly, anyways—and she didn't seem the type to sell herself. Besides, Tortuga was a pirate port, and according to Quinn, she wasn't a pirate. If that had been true before now, what was the point of her presence there?

"Well, I'm pleased to see you've decided to join us, Miss Quinn," Will said, although he wondered if a woman who saw such a dangerous quest as a means to alleviate her boredom could be considered suitable or trustworthy by any means. "As was Jack, I believe."

"He should be, seeing as how he invited me," she pointed out, and did not seem flattered. It was seeming less and less likely that there had ever been some sort of romantic relationship there. At least she wouldn't distract Jack, then, or vice versa. "Anyways, we're hardly going to find your Miss Swann if we keep talking. Later, Mr. Turner."

Will frowned. While she wasn't outright rude, she was certainly more abrupt than any women will had ever known. And his curiosity had not been assuaged; he knew nothing about her still. Of course, the affairs of Jack Sparrow and a strange woman were second in importance to Elizabeth, but he was still interested. Like he was interested in the new identity of his father. And Jack's leverage.

"… crow's nest, Mr. Cotton," he heard Jack saying in the background, and got back to work, giving the woman only a passing glance as she once again reemerged from below decks empty-handed. Whoever she was to Jack, or apart from Jack, he was quite sure that he didn't care. As long as Quinn could bring them closer to saving Elizabeth, she could be anyone. After all, he was already working with a known pirate and likely wanted by the law. It could hardly be made any worse—unless this fails, and I've done this for nothing.

For the next hour, Will found himself far more enthused with his labor.

This is some really old writing that I found and salvaged. Most of it is already written, so I figured I would revise and post it.

Maybe I should leave it alone, since it's so old, but the character and idea has stuck with me since I wrote this in 2016. I guess that probably means I should put 'er out there and be done with it. Let me know what you think.