(Disclaimer: not mine.)

Paradise of the Mind

BOOM!!

CRASH!!

The thunderclap earned a petrified yelp from Mullroy, making him clunk his head directly into Murtogg's. The pair was sitting back-to-back on the iron deck grate at the Black Pearl's bow, drearily taking in the growing storm around them as they served on watch duty. The two men had known each other ever since their first days in the Navy, and throughout all those years—despite Mullroy's attempts to look like a refined know-it-all—Murtogg knew that his friend was even more of a jittery wreck than himself.

Grunting loudly at the collision to the back of his head, the younger ex-soldier glanced over his shoulder at his bug-eyed friend. "Will you stop that?" he asked, sounding more in pain than irritated. "It's just a bit of thunder."

"A bit of thunder means there's a bit of lighting nearby," Mullroy shot back matter-of-factly. "And with us sittin' 'ere soaked to the bones as we are, we're liable to get a bit illuminated and end up a bit well-done. There's plenty of reason to be scared of it."

"But thunder doesn't come until after the lightning," Murtogg pointed out unsurely, "So…there's really nothin' to be scared of after you hear it."

"Oh!" the other said in the high-pitched, condescending tone that'd won him countless squabbles in the past. He was practically turned all the way around to face his friend now. "And hearing thunder after a strike of lightning in a storm like this couldn't possibly mean that another unforeseen strike of lightning could be close behind, and will illuminate us and make us a bit well-done. Is that what you're saying?"

Unwilling to answer this, Murtogg frowned and turned his head to stare forward again. "…Well there's plenty of things worse than thunder to be afraid of," he said lamely.

Mullroy sent him a sideward, demeaning look. "Like what?"

Murtogg paused, then offered, "Whale droppings?"

The two exchanged an awkward stare, then impulsively smacked their foreheads together at the next clap of thunder.

Back at the ship's wheel, Gibbs squinted through the downpour, convinced that he saw a tiny shape in the distance.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Below deck, Pintel was wrestling with his own demons.

The old pirate sighed and slumped back against one of the wooden hammock posts, slowly sinking to the floor. He was exhausted for some reason, and wasn't about to go through the hassle of setting up his hammock like Cotton and another snoring crewman had each done at the far end of the room. For now, he was content with leaning against the support beam like this—even if he could feel a forest of splinters stand up every time he moved his shoulders and could smell the business end of a canon right next to him.

Pintel shifted slightly for a comfortable position, then reached up to push back his hat and absently rub his eyes. He'd been down here for a while now; no doubt, the sun was starting to set outside, and the heavy sound of raindrops drumming against the deck was only further incentive to stay where he was.

The bald fellow moved on to rubbing his temple for a moment, but then abruptly froze. A second later, Pintel snapped open his yellowed eyes and glared over at his hand. He remained this way for just a little longer, then slowly brought his hand over to study it directly. To his discovery, it was shaking. It wasn't extreme—in fact, it was barely noticeable—but Pintel could still see that tiny tremor of movement that he wasn't quite able to control.

The pirate arched one shaggy eyebrow, half curious. The thing was usually steady as a rock.

Another thought came to him just then, a recollection of his days of piracy before the Navy, and Pintel found himself in a different place and time. He was still on a ship, but it was smaller and slower than the Black Pearl. What was it called again? The captain's name was Brackens; he knew that at least. For some reason though, the ship's name was hazy in his mind.

He was standing at the helm of Brackens's vessel, clutching the rigging in front of him with his steady hands and squinting into the morning wind that blasted his face. There was another pirate there with him that day—a boy. The lad couldn't have been older than twelve, and he looked like a blonde-haired mongrel in an eye patch as he leaned over the bow's rail to yap and holler excitedly at the pod of dolphins skimming through the water far below them. Pintel, on the other hand, couldn't have cared less about those overgrown fish. His attention was focused on clinging to that bloody rope as tight as possible, so the wind wouldn't knock him flat on his ass.

Leaning against his hammock post, the aging sea rat smirked faintly to himself. This was a pirate's life.

Pintel would have dwelled on this longer, but at that moment, Ragetti arrived onto the scene. The scrawny young man came trudging into the room with a guarded look on his rain-soaked face, and it was just visible in the dim light that he was clutching something in one hand. Eyeing his uncle on the floor, Ragetti stiffly reached out and set the mystery object on a salvaged plank table that hung beside the canon.

Hearing the sound, Pintel suddenly snapped out of his trance and glanced over at it. "Wot's 'at?" he asked oddly.

Ragetti was barely even looking at him. "Yer pistol."

The older man blinked, perplexed, then reached down to feel at his holster. Sure enough, it was empty. Why the blazes wasn't his pistol in there?

"…Where'd yeh find that?" he asked.

"Up on deck," Ragetti answered flatly. He paused then, warily sending his uncle a sideways stare. "Yeh left it there when yeh came down t'get rum for Cap'n Gibbs."

That really earned a reaction from Pintel.

The bald first mate's eyes suddenly grew huge as this dawned on him, and he sparked right back to life with a shout and staggered wildly to his feet. How could he have bloody forgotten that? He'd been down here for three hours!

"Where—where d'we keeps the stuff?" he demanded, looking around so frantically that his hat nearly flew off. "S'ere any down in the 'old? Or maybe in the cap'n's cabin?!"

"'E don't want it no more," was Ragetti's dull reply. Pintel let out an aggravated growl at this, then suddenly vented his anger the first way he could think to: by kicking the canon. Unfortunately, this only earned him a stubbed toe, and the stocky buccaneer found himself doubled over in pain an instant later.

Ignoring the humor of this pathetic display, Ragetti stepped back lifelessly to sit himself on another one of the iron weapons. "That were the whole reason yeh came down 'ere, Pinters," he pointed out. The slight reproach in his voice was hard to miss—apparently, the long-haired lank was still nursing some wounds from the nasty taunting that Pintel'd given him last night. "Yeh went runnin' off t'get one li'l fing, and you forgot it."

The older man scowled up at him, struggling to ignore the throbbing in his foot. "So wot if I did?"

Ragetti let his comeback die in his throat and sullenly looked away again. He'd already been through this stubborn argument once before; there was no sense repeating it.

Pintel would have hotly pressed on with the confrontation, but before he could spit another word out, the sound of anxious footfalls on the steps abruptly cut him off. A moment later, a thoroughly drenched Murtogg and Mullroy came stumbling below deck, sloshing water all over the place as they did so.

"Oi, Ragetti!" Murtogg shouted to his two companions. "Pintel! Captain wants all hands on deck!"

"All hands on deck!" Mullroy howled behind him just then. Hearing his booming order, Cotton woke with a start, prompting a surprised squawk of "Every foot in the storm!" from his nearby parrot. The other sleeping crewman, a frizzy-haired sailor named Friskin, tumbled right out of his hammock with a loud thud!

The two wet messengers looked to Pintel and Ragetti again and gestured for them to hurry. It was clear from the expressions on Murtogg and Mullroy's faces that the pair had just witnessed something frightful above deck, but their backs were turned and scurrying back up the steps before anything more could be thought of it. Still standing by his empty hammock posts, Pintel quickly stood up straight and exchanged a last dismal look with Ragetti. The bickering could wait for now.

Then keeping his hand as steady as possible, the first mate reached over and snatched up his recovered pistol.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Gibbs barely acknowledged Pintel as he heard the other pirate approach. The captain's full attention was locked ahead, over the Black Pearl's starboard rail, and there wasn't a single force left in nature that could distract him from what he saw.

As soon as he'd pushed through the other crowding crewmen—including a rather intrigued-looking Windrick—and climbed onto the quarterdeck, Pintel suddenly felt the same way. The bald first mate instantly froze, struck dumb by the sight. Twelve ship lengths away on the southern horizon, shrouded by the heavy rainfall, was an approaching vessel.

It was another Navy vessel.

Sensing the other's bafflement, Gibbs gave a disgusted explanation.

"They've been followin' us fer near an hour. Lousy rotters even brought 'er the long way 'round so to cut us off here."

"Blimey!" Pintel blasted, oblivious to Gibbs's report. "S'ere nuffin' but Navy ships left in the Caribbean?!"

Whatever bitter expression was left on Gibbs's face faded away right then, replaced by a weary one. "Looks that way."

The fleet vessel was drawing closer now. It was obviously much larger than the Prowess, as its outward-bulging sides and massive sails showed, and this notion brought some hope to the pirate captain—this ship could be outrun and outmaneuvered at least. From his place at the wheel, Gibbs could just make out faint gold letters painted along the side of the enemy ship: Navigator.

Surrounded by crewmembers on the main deck, Ragetti, Murtogg, and Mullroy each observed the scene with knotted stomachs. The youngest of the three, Joseph Murtogg anxiously pulled his gaze away from the nearing ship and over to his one-eyed comrade.

"Think we could we pass off as a merchant ship?" he asked in a small voice. He and Mullroy were hardly pushovers in battle anymore, but that had never quelled their desire to avoid a conflict when it was possible. That desire was all that kept most pirates alive.

Beside him, Ragetti could do nothing but stare. Even Charlotte was uncharacteristically reserved a few meters off to their right.

The suspenseful approach continued for another minute, then all of a sudden, a blonde man in a tri-cornered hat and blue overcoat stepped up to the Navigator's helm. He was a lieutenant, and even from this distance, his eyes seemed to be locked dead on Gibbs and Pintel.

"Pirates!" he addressed them sharply, leaning over the rail. "You are sailing in protected waters belonging to His Majesty the king, and you are under arrest! State your name and destination!"

Gibbs arched his weathered brow and shared a crooked glance with Pintel. Neither one of them looked remotely impressed.

"Don't quite know what yeh mean, Lieutenant," the Pearl's captain called reasonably across the water. "We're naught but a ship of 'onest sailors makin' our rounds."

The lieutenant, however, was unfazed by this lie; he'd heard it too many times before to believe it anymore. Still, he had enough wit to play along with it for now. "Then why are your colors not flying, Captain?"

"It be mighty hard to fly colors when you've got none."

"It's also difficult to fly your colors when they are unauthorized ones," the Navigator's commander pressed on tersely. By now, the ships were close enough for him to see Gibbs's beard through the rain. "State your name and destination."

Even after this stern questioning, Gibbs refused to show the officer a cornered expression. The whiskered sailor had been a pirate for as long as he was willing to remember, and he'd seen more than his fair share of these pompous redcoats. To him, they were nothing but well-dressed usurpers—the real pirates—and they'd only gotten worse since that sea goddess had been freed from her bones. The years of running away were finally catching up to him, and to say the least, Gibbs was fed up with it.

"My name and destination hardly matter, seein's how you've already got a mind to arrest us," he pointed out with mock politeness. He was using every scrap of effort he had to not laugh at the officer right then and there. "Seems you've got all the information yeh needs, Lieutenant."

Pintel reinforced the comment with a cheeky smirk. Now the captain had that bilge bag up against a wall!

But just then, another member of the Black Pearl's crew decided to speak up.

"His name is Captain Henry Billings and our destination is the Bahamas! We're privateers!"

Every set of eyes on the scene turned towards the source of the call, and seeing it, Pintel and Ragetti donned identical scowls. It was Windrick.

From the Navigator's rail, the lieutenant studied the pirates' captive skeptically. "Privateers?" he echoed. "Under who?"

Windrick never even hesitated. "The East India Trading Company, of course! We've flown their colors for nearly two years. Unfortunately, they were torn free in a windstorm one fortnight ago and carried away. We haven't been able to find a replacement since then!"

Gibbs wrinkled his nose at the former officer, somehow lacking gratitude. That conniving little loose cannon! What was he trying to hatch now?

The lieutenant's offensive glare softened slightly, and he regarded Windrick with the same sadistic boredom that a cat might show to a mouse struggling in a trap. "I see. And I suppose you're the agent overseeing the dealings on board this ship?"

Windrick stood up a little straighter at that. "Of course."

His interrogator absently brushed at his ship's rail. "What's your name, sailor?" he asked calmly.

Murtogg and Mullroy began to look hopeful now. Naval officer or not, Windrick was a master liar—the Black Pearl just might make it out of this mess scratch-free! But Ragetti didn't share their optimism. This lieutenant seemed too confident about something.

Oblivious to the trio, Windrick answered the question. "Franklin Morgause."

"And tell me, Mister Morgause," the lieutenant sail coolly, staring straight at him. "How does an agent of the East India Company such as yourself…come to own a Naval uniform?"

That was all it took. The Navigator's commander had just played a card that no one on the Black Pearl had ever thought he could, and in his surprise, Windrick did the worst thing possible: he paused.

His discoverer didn't even give a confirming nod at this falter; now he really did have all the information he needed. The lieutenant had known all along that he was dealing with a pirate crew, and this sly imposter on the black-sailed ship's main deck was the most despicable one of them all. The thought of the poor officer whose uniform this criminal now wore sent a chill up his spine. Lingering on this notion, the commander coldly turned to the rest of his crew.

"Proceed, soldiers."

Back on the Pearl, Ragetti felt a knot twist in his throat and glanced up at Pintel with dread. The older pirate looked just as dismayed, confirming his fears.

This was going to be bad.

--

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(Woo-hoo! Another update! And I wrote most of this chapter from a beach condo in North Carolina while I was on vacation!)

Just hang in there, folks. Something major's about to happen in the next chapter or two!