I finished writing the story today. It made me feel so depressed, but on the otherhand, I'm not disappointed with it at all. But, you all will have to wait awhile until you get to finish it all. I'm evil. :P And.. yeah. You know the deal, Africans. Hungry. I'm not imaginative enough to think something else up. Enjoy and please review!

I do not know how a pirate feels while walking to their own hanging, but I can only assume that I felt the same way walking with Captain Charrier upon the island of Tortuga. Of course, the gallows were replaced by the town hall, which was located far off from any pubs but was still pillaged through regularly. But, it was an town hall, nonetheless, and would be the exact place where a captain would return any kidnapped and runaway English officers that they may have found in their travels. The problem was that I had to devise a plan in this short time that would allow me to explain to Charrier that I was not an actual officer without him slicing my throat. I had already observed his ferocity for respect that he demanded from anyone around him. I could not imagine his anger when he learns that I had tried to fool him.

The captain and I walked silently and alone, the ominous red sky looming above us. He did not look at me, nor seemed to care that I was beginning to look anxious for some reason. We walked on the main streets rather than the dark shortcut alleyways where pirates were sure to be about. I tried to seem professional despite the filth on my clothes and did not look at any of the residents that we passed by. I only let my thoughts wander every once in a while only to be reminded of the fate that I faced. What exactly would he do to me? I suppose the most reasonable thing to do would to roar in French swears, push me to the ground, then threaten his sword at me. After that.. after, I do not know what, but I pray that my fate would be as so kind as to avoid that situation at any cost.

Soon enough, the town hall stood before us. It was a crooked and wrecked little thing. Shattered glass was spread below the windows and canvas replaced it, probably to keep the rain out. A few dents surrounded the front wall, and they looked as they came from guns. The drunkards sure had fun tearing this place up.

Charrier ignored all of this and strode in with me following behind. The inside was as crude as the exterior, with bare walls and a mess of papers everywhere.

The one man seated behind one of the desks did not seem to mind this at all. He looked up at our presence and greeted the captain in some decent French.

They exchanged a few words about light subjects such as the weather, politics, and little tidbits of gossip they had heard, or so I think. I did not listen much because I was wondering how long it would take for me to reach my doom. Then, Charrier finally mentioned to me and spoke with such words you would assume have to do with me like, "Edward Hurst" and "lieutenant." The other's eyebrows furrowed, and he returned a scowl, speaking such words like, "No, no, no!" which, in French, "Non non non!" sounds much more interesting.

Finally, the secretary coughed and said to me, "Mr. Norrington, how many drinks do you think you had last night?"

"None!" I proclaimed defensively. Actually, I did have that wine. Alas, this proved that the man actually knew who I was, making this situation even more complicated. I swallowed and tried to solve this problem without being killed.

"Is there any way that I could pay this man for his services without the use of a bank?" I asked. Using a bank would require me to be in public and show my dirt-filled face which I was not eager to do at the moment.

He shook his head rolled his eyes. "Capitaine, le nom de cet homme est James Norrington. Il est une imposteur-"

I brought my sword to his throat. It happened so quickly, so automatically, that I hardly believed that I had done it at all. Captain, he had said, this man is James Norrington. He is an impostor- then, I had snapped. At that word. Impostor. My heart began to beat quickly, and my breath with it.

The cheeky fellow stared bug-eyed at me. Captain Charrier did too, starting to back away with his hand desperately grabbing the hilt, but did not dare draw it out yet.

We all stood frozen for just that one second. I took a breath and went along with the spontaneity of it all. Threatening others was much better than being tortured, but was still very risky.

I walked closer to the secretary and went behind the desk, bringing the bottom of my blade closer to his neck. The man stood still. I reached into his pocket, pulled out his money pouch and tossed it to the Charrier, who caught it, looking very well surprised.

"Est-ce que c'est assez?" I asked. Will that be enough?

Charrier looked inside and shone with delight. "Oui, oui. Merci." Yes, yes. Thank you. Without further ado, he reached for the door and sped out of the room.

"Idiot," the secretary spat at me, "that was six crowns you just gave him."

I felt strangely content. "You should watch your mouth when it's so close to a blade."

He swallowed, but I had the feeling he wasn't completely overtaken by fear. He probably got threatened at the neck many times, living on such a filthy island. Nevertheless, I searched him and found that he was only armed with a pistol and a heavy pocket watch. When I asked him of this, he replied something about secretaries and their universally poor talent in sword fighting.

"Pity," I only said, and pocketed his pistol. It felt good to have something more than my sword in my belt. Besides, I was sure to need a pistol sometime soon.

My sword fell from his neck and I started toward the door. I remember that I took four steps, breathed once, and the bell had finished its strikes to signify the time.

"What will they say," the secretary suddenly wondered aloud, "when they find out that Commodore Norrington's gone pirate?"

I said nothing and quickly left.

Pirate. The word struck me in the heart. I was no pirate. Yes, I was. A pirate. A thief. I had stolen from that man. I had threatened him, with a sword! If that was not an act of a pirate, then nothing was. Stealing those six crowns- stealing that pistol had felt good to me. Why?! Why did it feel good? I did not want it to feel good or reviving. I did not want get an adrenaline rush from thieving. It wasn't who I was. I was a good man. Commodore Norrington. No, dolt! I wasn't anymore. Now I was a pirate. No, I can still be good without being Commodore. It was just more difficult.

It took me to a few minutes to realize I was running, and though I do not know where, I found it satisfying. I commanded my legs to stop, and they did, slowly. This was silly. I was acting childish, not to mention arguing with myself. This was the sort of thing people went to insane institutes for.

There was a clear puddle at my feet and I bent down to it. My reflection scowled back at me. It was the first time I had seen what I looked like in a very long while. I hardly recognized it. The man in the puddle had a dirty sunburned face, straggly dark hair, an unshaved beard, and an open shirt. I would call this man a pirate. The problem was that this man was me.

I stood up. I needed a drink again. I needed a drink about ten times more than I thought I needed a drink before. I had never consumed that glass of rum in Nassau, come to think of it. I was more concerned with Anne, and.. I shouldn't remind myself of that. It was yet another act of my new pirate self.

The one closest to me was just across the street, thankfully. I glanced at the name scratched on the sign that hung above the door. The Faithful Bride. It was a strange name, but come to think of it, all pub names were strange. I was thirsty for something alcoholic and standing in front of a pub. There was no time to lose.