Boiling Point
Eleanor/Max
Max/F
Warnings: Graphic content Strong -M
Tristan-Chloe Bennet
Summary:
Eleanor has only ever been the second most powerful person to offer Max a better life. Max could have left several times, for a better life, to become a treasured wife, but she stayed. How long will her resolve hold when opportunities return?
A glimpse at the times Max could have left Nassau, interwoven with events from the episodes.
At the bottom line, this a Max/Eleanor fic but like their canon relationship, it's a bumpy ride for our favorite Nassau couple.
The first chapter takes place before Episode I, as well as between Episode IV and V
Nassau, 1710.
A raucous rhythm fills the night sky. The water serves as a perfect mirror as jagged lightening explodes above the surf. The snapping bolts illuminates two faces. Eleanor squints from the second story wrap around balcony. Her lips move silently as she anticipates the thunder, counting down with a 3…2…1. Deep rumbles arrive on a roiled wave.
"Someone is punishing us!" Eleanor groans. A heavy, gray rain, complete with mist and fog blankets the whole of Nassau. They named this particular bitch of a Tropical Storm, Pechas Mojadas. Literally, wet tits. She was welcomed at first; she did arrive at the end of a particularly long draught. People fucked in the rain, up and down the beaches, on rooftops. Then weeks went by as the storm claimed Nassau like a jealous, greedy lover, smashing ships to splinters up and down the shore.
"Relax. It will pass soon." Max presses the carved ivory and jade pipe to her lips in a way that pulls Eleanor's attention from the frothing waters, empty of ships. Max closes her eyes and inhales deeply, chest rising steadily. Eleanor blinks as white smoke erupts from Max's parted lips. She takes the ornate pipe from Max wordlessly.
"Ah. A customer," Max says, peeking over the ledge. A lone figure staggers down the road.
"Customer?" Eleanor says, raising an eyebrow at Max. "He can barely stand."
"Sometimes it means e'll fall asleep right away. If he doesn't I'll give him to Charlotte," Max says.
"How about I pay for you to stay and finish this with me?" Eleanor smirks, holding up a flask of newly 'imported' French Port.
"If you agree on a price with Mr. Noonan, why not?" Max says before disappearing down the stairs with a cheeky grin thrown over her shoulder.
"Maybe I will," Eleanor says before taking a long pull from the bottle.
"Oh good. You're still here. Room 1," Noonan says when Max descends from the stairs. He presses a jug of honey wine into her arms.
"Oui. And you're paying me double for tonight," Max says, noticing the complete lack of girls working tonight. She takes his scowl as an agreement.
"So I hear you need a warm place to stay the night," Max says, bolting the door behind her.
A loud thud echoes through the floorboards to her feet. She turns to find her customer slumped on the floor. Gathering her skirts, she bends to help the drunk off the ground. Her eyes widen when she realizes she's cupping a soft breast. The pleasant turn of events quickly disappears when she sees the crimson coating of blood on her hand in the candle light. Without a thought, Max drags her to the bed. As her stranger lands on the bed in a tousled mess, Max noticed a few things. 1.) She is quite a beauty. 2.) The entire front of her shirt is soaked in blood. 3.) A blade handle is sticking ever so slightly out from her waistband. 4.) Pirate.
Before Max can decide it's a bad idea to host an injured pirate with unknown affiliations, she's pulling back layers of soaked clothing. It takes a good minute for her to locate the source of bleeding. A thin, stiletto puncture mars tan skin, just to the left of her navel. Max eases her onto her side. She sighs, looking at the door.
"What?" Noonan snaps, not looking up from his card hand.
"Rate for the night?" Max asks, hiding her bloody hands in her skirts.
"Three by noon," Noonan says, waving her off.
"Merde." Max sighs, squeezing a rag over the basin for the tenth time. The water has grown dark with blood. She does the best she can, removing blood from the bruised torso with firm but careful strokes. She pauses when her fingers glide over a blood-slicked suede pouch slipping from the edge of the young woman's waist band. Max quickly runs a rag over the small package before placing it on the night stand. By the time she's done, Max is certain she deserves every cent coming her way. Her weary traveller sleeps, clean and bandaged.
"Where am I?" The young woman stirs on the bed. Max helps the young woman struggle into a sitting position. She carefully slips onto the bed between the young woman's legs.
"In the company of the most beautiful host in Nassau."
"And I was sleeping?" She winces, holding a palm to her belly.
"A shame isn't it? But you have me until noon," Max says, eyes darting to the pouch sitting on the dresser. "You owe Max three pieces none the less." Max shrugs.
"I'll give you one. That's all I have," the young woman says, reaching into the pouch.
"And what about this?" Max says. She pulls a crudely hammered silver tin from her cleavage. Max smiles as she raises the tin to her ear. The unmistakable sound of rolled opium balls rattle against metal melodiously in her ears.
"It's yours if you want it. Not my poison," the young woman says, lifting the edges of her borrowed shirt for a peek at her bandages.
"It's not mine either," Max says defensively. "But in Nassau, you can sell this is a second," Max says, slipping the tin back into her tight cleavage.
"Ah, a business woman are we?"
"Enough of one to know when I'm dealing with a pirate," Max says, reaching for a cup of wine. She swallows a large mouthful before holding the cup to her guest's lips. "What's your crew?" Max asks, swatting curious hands from a well bandaged torso.
"That topic is under negotiation," the young woman says, taking a sip in defeat. Max holds the cup firmly to her lips, forcing her to drink.
"What is your name then?" Max finally pulls the cup away.
"Tristan."
"Oui?" Max stares at the girl, struggling to discern her racial background. She reaches to pour another.
"So, the story goes. A Portuguese Man O' War, Dutch Whaler, Spanish Treasure Galleon, and an armored Asian Junk collide during a deeply unsettling skirmish. Nine months later a strangely colored abomination is born on the shores of a small island hidden in the sea…"
"You?" Max raises an eyebrow at the story.
"I said it was a story didn't I?"
"Triste," Max says, studying Tristan's face. Max leans up against her, tentatively gauging her reaction. A blush rises in her cheeks but she does not take Max's bait. "But I can make you feel better."
"I'm not sad," Tristan says, patting Max on the calf, unsure of where else to rest her hands.
"How could you be with Max?" Max says, sliding down to rest her head in her lap.
"Just make sure I'm breathing before you leave at noon." Tristan closes her eyes, heady from the wine.
"Oui," Max says. "And I'll make sure you don't rip those off, mon cher," Max says, eyes flickering to the bandages.
Max wakes cold with a sheet draped around her shoulders. The room is empty. The last candle flickers, clinging to its withered stump of melted wax. She opens her fist to find a thumb sized nugget of gold in her palm. The room is clean. All traces of blood have vanished. Max blushes when she realizes she's naked under the sheet.
"What the hell happened to 'I'll give him to Charlotte'?" Eleanor teases when she catches Max's eye from the second floor balcony.
"Noonan poppy-ed our wine!" Max sighs as she makes a quick dash up the stairs
"What are you wearing?" Eleanor asks, frowning as she watches Max dart through the empty establishment wearing nothing but a well tied bed sheet.
"Keep this for me until I absolutely need it," Max whispers. She presses the gold nugget into Eleanor's hand before shoving her into a room.
"What is this?" Eleanor says, opening her hands. "Must've been a busy night," Eleanor says, hefting the misshapen gold piece in her palm.
"Nothing happened. Could have been the opium…or wine. Many people grow generous with wine," Max says, shrugging into a tight corset.
"What are you doing?" Eleanor asks, watching Max groom in a hurry. She won't admit it, but she's impressed with how quickly those eyes are outlined. A scowl crosses Eleanor's face when she catches Max's gaze in the mirror, smirking at her.
"I have to make sure I'm decent with company!" Max says. Her voice falls to a hush. "Can you help me? Please?" Max takes Eleanor's hand and opens her fingers to reveal the gold.
"You want me to be your human safety deposit box?" Eleanor asks.
"You're the safest place on the island aren't you?" Max let's slip without thinking. "Noonan wouldn't ever lay a hand on you."
"Ok, save that for later, you're not working now," Eleanor laughs as Max bats her lashes at her.
"Well, technically I'm paid for till noon," Max says. "Should we finish the wine for our departed guest?" Max raises the jug she hid in the bed sheet.
"I thought you said the wine was poppy-ed," Eleanor says.
"Yes. And?" Max says, a challenge in her voice.
"Alright," Eleanor says to Max's surprise. "Shit," Eleanor looks at the gold in her hand. "I need to lock this up before I have more to drink," Eleanor says.
"Eleanor!" Max curses under her breathe when Eleanor disappears into the stairwell.
"Oh thank God," a voice groans. Max flinches when Tristan sags to the floor behind the large dresser. "I was sure you two would start fornicating." Tristan blinks when Max slaps her across the face sharply. "I'm bleeding already, thank you." She glares up at Max when her nose starts bleeding again.
"What are you doing here!" Max snaps under her breath.
"I need your delicate hands for just one more favor. Until noon remember?" Tristan says, waving Max over. Max curses when Tristan rips her bandage off. Tristan takes Max's hand and presses it to her abdomen, She presses her own hand to the other side of the wound. Tristan lies down, holding a swath of the curtains between her teeth. With a push, Tristan screams into the fabric. She presses Max's hand to the wound. A jagged metal edge juts, warm and bloody from her skin. Without hesitation, Max grips the broken stiletto with her skirt scrunched in hand. A sharp tug later, a golden blade thuds to the carpet.
"Foutre," Max whispers. Max watches as Tristan scrubs the bloody blade with her shirt. She staggers to the nearest candle and begins heating the metal. "What are you doing?" Max watches as Tristan snaps the sharpened rod into several small pieces. Tristan grabs Max's hand and presses the jagged chunks into her palm.
"Don't let anyone take this from you," Tristan says, holding her palm to her stomach. A mischievous smile crosses her face as the sound of ripping fabric fills the room. Max stares at the strip of fabric dangling in Tristan's hands. She looks down to see a substantial portion of her skirts missing. Max pauses to watch as Tristan efficiently rebinds her side with the strip of fabric.
"What are you doing?" Max ask when Tristan moves directly to the door the moment she finishes tying off her wound.
"Letting you get on with your night," Tristan says, a hint of smirk on her lips. "Don't worry. I'll be back soon enough."
Nassau 1715.
The tavern doors slam open. The man behind the bar smiles at the figure beyond the threshold. A young woman quickly steps into the room. Drunken conversations pause as glossy eyes rake over the newcomer. Her clothing reveals without a doubt, that she is a seafarer, one from beyond the nearest ocean. Tan skin and smokey, lined eyes sweep across the room. Mixed blood runs through her veins. Several tables of men quickly turn back to their drink. Billy Bones lowers his drink as he strains to catch a glimpse of her face. He slouches in the corner of the room, attempting to hide himself when he realizes who she is.
"You have returned!" The barkeep smiles at the woman, bottle of rum ready in hand. He quickly over pours several shots.
"It has been a long voyage," the young woman says. "But Nassau will be happy," she says.
"Wonderful. It's good to see you, Tristan," the barkeeps says. "Shall I call on Ms. Guthrie?" he says.
"Thank you," Tristan says. "But the captain won't be here for another week or so."
A young man, barely two months into the Nassau life moves to approach Tristan as she turns to leave. A calloused hand shoots out, anchoring him by the shoulder.
"Boy, do you wish to see the sun again?" Billy Bones grits under his breath. The large pirate effortlessly pushes the young man back into his seat. He watches the girl through the dusty windows as she makes her way towards the brothel.
"Ladies! Your party has arrived!" Mrs. Mapleton announces from the second floor.
"The Crimson Fleet is back?" Several whores throw themselves off disgruntled laps and rush to fix their makeup and hair.
"What the fuck is this all about?" A burly man with several missing teeth throws his ale at a wall as the females completely ignore the current patrons in the hall. He staggers in a half circle and comes face to face with Tristan as she enters the brothel. "What about you, cunt? Still for sale? Or are you waiting for the fucking Crimson Fleet?" He reaches out with a meaty hand.
Tristan's eyes dart to the offending appendage on her shoulder. Without a pause, she reaches out and snatches a plate off a nearby table. Mrs. Mapleton blinks as Tristan's hand whips up in a blur. The edge of the plate crashes into the underside of the man's jaw bone, exposing a bristly throat. The force of blow snaps off a section of the plate lip, leaving a razor sharp edge. Tristan's hand moves in a blur again, running across his throat with surgical precision. The broken edge glides along his neck with ease, leaving a stark trail of shaved skin.
Her hand dips at the last moment and allowing the sharpness to bite into flesh. A flap of skin falls to the ground, still bristling with beard. The man's eyes widen, clutching at his bleeding throat with both hands.
"Tell Noonan I'll cover his tab," Tristan says, turning to Mrs Mapleton. She tosses the broken plate into the fireplace before producing a small velvet pouch.
"I will when he returns," Mrs. Mapleton says, trying hard not to look at the gurgling patron.
"Thank you. Where's Max?" Tristan asks. Her eyes dart up to the private rooms above, finding only open doors and dark quiet rooms
"She's not here-," a younger whore begins when Mrs. Mapleton quickly cuts her off.
"She's not working tonight," Mrs. Mapleton says before the young girl can reveal Max's recent predicament.
"Not a worry," Tristan says. "The crew will be here soon enough. Just thought it courtesy to book the house in advance," Tristan says as she tosses a pouch to Mrs. Mapleton. She swallows when she feels the weight and shapes of the pouch's contents through the fabric. By the time she looks up again, Tristan is halfway out the door.
In the street, Billy Bones watches from the shadows as Tristan makes her way out of town, towards the beach. At the cusp of town, he looks back at the bustling tavern. Flint'll want to know about Ms. Guthrie's prospective exchange with the Crimson Fleet. His head snaps back to the lone woman disappearing down the darkened beach.
"The business will be more important," Billy Bones mutters, retreating into town.
Down the beach, Tristan sighs. The last half year has been busy. Their crew has been growing, as have the reach of their routes. Although she enjoys the rough and hectic life but her sparse visits to Nassau have always come as welcomed relief.
"Well, at least the breeze is here," Tristan says quietly to the moon's reflection on the dark water. She unbuckles the thick belt at her waist and stretches, stabbing her sheathed blade into the sand. Deft fingers quickly unroll a large leaf of cured tobacco. Cupping the leaf in one hand, Tristan crumbles several pieces of cannabis into the waiting shell. Within seconds she has a perfectly rolled cannon in her hand. She looks around, content with the distant between her and a sprinkling of tents down the shore. "Pigs." Tristan shakes her head as the sounds of fucking drift over on the night breeze. She squints and makes out a man exiting a tent at the edge of the dismal camp. Another man staggers in. Moments later, screams, distorted by the wind reach Tristan's ears.
In an instant, Tristan realizes exactly what she's hearing. She tucks the rolled cannabis into her waist band. Heat races through her veins as the assault escalates. She snatches her scabbard from the sand, leaping to her feet. A spray of sand showers the dropped sheets of tobacco as her heels kick up a flurry.
"Are you learning to enjoy my forceful obedience, you stupid cunt?" Vane's bald pirate grunts into Max's ear.
She chokes for air as his hand tightens around her neck. Her fingers grip feebly at her throat as she fights to breath. His hand disappears from her neck for a moment, allowing her to draw breath. The moment of relief disappears as dirty fingers grip her hair roughly. He slams her face down into the sand, drawing blood from her nose and splitting her lip. Max's eyes tear up involuntarily as he continues to press her face into the ground. Sand fills her eyes, nostrils and mouth as he leans his weight against her head. Everything burns as she begins choking on the grit. He speeds up his thrusts, bruising her purposely with the force of his hips slamming into her back. "Did you hear me?" he growls. He pulls out of her, and bends to scoop a handful of sand into his palm. He forces sand coated fingers into Max, relishing at the sensation of her entire body going taut at the new assault. A renewed shriek of pain escapes Max's lips, even the sand cannot hold her cry of anguish back. He moves to penetrate her again when the tent flaps flip open.
Tristan grimaces at the sight inside the tent. A beaten young woman is sprawled face down in the sand, her ass propped up. Tristan winces at the bruised and bleeding mess marring her entire lower body. Tristan's eye flicker to the bald pirate standing above her. He turns to face her, pants pooled around his ankles. His grotesque erection waves at her, slicked with blood and purple with rage. Tristan's knuckles grow white as her grip on the wooden torch tightens. The man lunges for her with a shout. Tristan quickly side steps the charging man and slams her knee into his exposed groin. She slams the butt of the torch into his back as he crashes to the ground. Before she realizes what she's doing, she's kicking his legs open. Her boots land, heavy, blow after blow into the crux of his legs. The sharp sound of blade exiting it's sheath fills the tent.
"Wait! Please," Max croaks. Tristan looks up, actually recognizing Max's face for the first time. Hand shaking, Tristan pulls her blade away from the base of the man's skull. The blade drops to the sand as Tristan rushes to Max's side.
"Max," Tristan says, ripping a sheet off the nearby bed. She quickly gathers the beaten girl in her arms and lifts her to the bed. Her eyes land on a pitcher of water. Keeping one arm around Max's shaking frame, she reaches for the pitcher. "Close your eyes," Tristan says, barely able to bring herself to look at Max's face. Max coughs and winces as the water runs over her face, washing sand and blood from her beautiful features. Tristan pauses when Max flinches, leaning off the edge of the bed to spit bloody grit. Max grips the pitcher and takes in a large mouthful before spitting again. Tristan inhales sharply when she sees the bright red stains imprinted in the stark white cotton, marking Max's seat.
"I've been wondering when you'd return to Nassau," Max says with a pained smile, hands busying themselves with the pitcher in her lap.
"Please tell me why I'm not dragging him to the shore for night fishing," Tristan says, ignoring Max's false bravado.
"I'm paying off a debt," Max says.
"Not like this you're not," Tristan says, gently pressing a wet rag to Max's bleeding lip.
"It's the only way I can," Max croaks.
"Please look at me," Tristan says, regretting her request immediately when Max's swollen eyes turn to face her. "I've always told you I would take you away from all this. I understood why you stayed then, but I cannot understand why you would stay now," Tristan says.
"I-," Max begins. Her head swims as thoughts of Eleanor, sinking pearls and treasure maps fill her mind.
"Shit," Tristan mutters as Max pitches forward, blacking out completely.
She avoids the town, instead choosing to carry Max the long way up the coast, as she winds her way back to one of the secluded inns on the edge of town.
Max wakes before dawn. The sky is still completely black and the sun is nowhere near peeking on the horizon. She inhales sharply when she feels soft silk against her bare skin. The scent of clean linens and scented oils fill her senses. This is not the tent in Vane's camp. Max looks down to find her body bathed, oiled and anointed with sharp smelling herbs. She rolls over to find Tristan sleeping on the floor beside the heavy rosewood bed. She gasps when she sees Tristan's clothing crusted with blood and filth. A pile of discarded rags sit crumpled near a large basin in the corner of the room.
"Tristan," Max says softly. She sits up, freezing as searing pain runs through the length of her body. She groans and braces herself on the bed. The sounds of pain ruse Tristan from her slumber.
"Careful," Tristan says, reaching up to steady Max, still blinking sleep from her eyes.
"What are you doing, sleeping on the floor like a dog?" Max scolds before she can help herself.
Tristan yawns, pulling herself to her feet. "God I smell like shit fermented twice," she grimaces. Max watches as the sleepy young woman pulls her shirt over her head. She shrugs out of her pants in a second. Tristan quickly leans into an open barrel of water, rinsing and rubbing herself in the wooden container. Dried blood and the stink of a fight quickly dissipates into the water.
Max says, moving to Tristan's side when the young woman remerges, gasping from the barrel. Max sets to rapidly toweling Tristan's long, thick hair. Tristan endures the flurry of flying hands in her hair for a few moments before shaking loose. "You are going to get sick," Max says when Tristan slips an arm gently around her waist. She slowly tightens her hold on Max, holding her close.
"Max, I have just returned from across the world. Before you set to domesticating…" Tristan says, plucking something from her discarded clothing. "Let's wind down, shall we?" Tristan says, holding out the thick rolled leaves. "Come," Tristan says, leading Max onto the deck.
Several stray dogs watch as Tristan guides Max to the stack of poppy sacks sitting exposed under the night sky. She gives the sacks a few kicks to loosen them up before making herself comfortable on the large woven sacks. Max settles into the giving material and pulls her knees up to her chest. She sniffs as Tristan exhales a large cloud of white smoke into the night air. Max sighs, looking up at the stars twinkling dimly in the sky. A cool breeze runs over Max's skin, driving her to lean against Tristan's heated skin. She gives in and allows her head to sink to Tristan's shoulder. Her head snaps up when her split cheek connects too suddenly with skin. Tristan furrows her brow in concern. She quickly hands Max the blunt. Max shakes her head, only to find herself wincing at the bruises mottling her neck and throat.
"Then have a drink. Please," Tristan says. Max's stomach roils immediately at the thought of drinking. She leans forward to the offered joint. She coughs after a notable amount of time passes, enveloping Tristan in a cloud. She closes her eyes for a moment as the painful buzz in her entire body slowly fades to the back of her mind. "How are you feeling?" Tristan asks quietly, watching as Max struggles to keep her eyes focused.
Tristan sighs, watching the girl doze off. The pirate inhales deeply, burning through the blunt in a few long pulls. By the time she's done, Max's breathing is rhythmic and deep; the girl's completely lost in sleep. Tristan quietly scoops the sleeping girl in her arms and moves steadily across the deck, back into her rented room for the night. Max immediately curls into the silk sheets as Tristan lays her down.
"Stay," Max says quietly when she feels Tristan slipping off the edge of the bed. She turns, wrapping Tristan's arm around her waist.
"I'll take you across the seven seas," Tristan whispers into Max's ear.
"Hmm, where first mon amour?" Max murmurs, reaching down to interlock her fingers with Tristan's.
"First, I will take you diving for black pearls," Tristan says, tickling Max's ear. She continues speaking softly until Max drifts off again. Tristan presses a kiss to Max's temple, happy to see her face relaxed, if only in sleep.
In the morning, Tristan will wake to an empty bed.
The sun hangs high in the sky. Tristan has completed a full round of the Nassau, eavesdropping at different taverns before slipping into loosely guarded warehouses. She repeats inventories to herself, memorizing stockpiles as she flits from shipment to shipment, noting exactly what she needs to return to Nassau with. It's high noon when she finally returns to the tiny dinghy hidden in a particularly rocky alcove.
"The fuck you think you're doing?" Anne Bonny's voice resonates lowly from behind the dinghy parked in the shade. Tristan's hands fly to her waist at the sound of her voice.
"Packing a fucking picnic!' Tristan says, quickly returning the drawn blade to its sheath when she recognizes her guest. She continues loading her sparse supplies into the tiny boat.
"You're a fool," Anne says after a few moments of watching her throw supplies at the dinghy.
"Maybe I am." Tristan throws the remaining jugs of water into the boat. "But at least I'm not a coward," Tristan says, struggling to keep her voice down. "How could you let them-," Tristan says, eyes burning from the memory of finding Max in Vane's camp.
"You put her in chains," Anne interrupts.
"What?"Tristan snaps. Anne's eyes flicker to Tristan's hands, relieved to find them clenched by her sides.
"You were the one who took her last night," Anne states. "They put her in chains because of you." She flinches when Tristan's hand inevitably returns to her blade. Anne watches as Tristan breathes deeply, knuckles whitening as her fists tighten. The guilt pours into her throat all at once, pushing into her chest.
"I can retrieve her and be gone from this rock before sundown," Tristan says, eyes darting to the shadows playing off the coconut trees lining the beach.
"Then what? Have the men drag the Guthrie cunt into streets, blaming her for the lost of their new toy?" Anne says. "I don't think the girl would leave Nassau for that reason alone."
"I would set fire to Nassau and watch it burn to ash and sand," Tristan says. Anne nods, believing every word.
"All for a cunt you haven't claimed? Doubt your crew will stand behind you," Anne says.
"I don't need a crew to kill a few stray dogs," Tristan says, turning to look Anne in the eyes.
"No, but you need your captain's word," Anne says. She watches as the weight of the statement sinks in. "Unless you're not done making rash decisions."
"I'll return soon. Regard her treatment with consideration," Tristan warns quietly. With that, she pushes off the shore. Anne watches as the dinghy disappears around the bend.
"Well that went better than expected." Rackham steps out from behind a thicket of brush. "That whore is truly the gift that refuses to stop giving. How'd you know so much about her crew anyway?"
"You have no idea how lucky you are," Anne says, fixing him with a hard look. She looks out across the water. "Oh, that's right, you've never dealt with the Crimson Fleet before, have you?" Anne ignores him all the way back into town.
Vane listens intently as Anne speaks in hushed whispers. Rackham squints, attempting to decipher Anne's words. Vane's eyes widen for a second before he resumes his squint. Several moments of silence pass before Vane gets up.
"What's the plan?" Rackham asks, turning to follow his captain and woman into the street.
"The brothel," Vane says.
In the next chapter, we'll be taking a closer look at how Eleanor and Max's agreement came to fruition as well as the introduction of the Crimson Fleet. And there will be violence.