My apologies for the delay on this chapter. I was working on studying for my finals in school. I have four of them (all of my classes now) and I've been working hard at that. As well, as making this chapter good! Yay! I'm also having a bit of boyfriend problems, but it's something that'll be resolved soon. I was listening to "Man! I feel like a Woman!" at one point while writing this. It goes well for the most part. I think I might start looking for good music for y'all to listen to while reading this. Stuff that goes along pretty well, I'll try that for the next chapter. --Anna

Ch. 10

The crank slammed downed and sent a message to awaken the Kraken. Bootstrap had been sent to Sparrow's ship to notify him once more that his time was up, and this time, it wasn't a warning, it was an absolute meaning that it was time.

He had a dismal expression and was walking slowly, groaning to himself. "Bootstrap?" Michelle asked running up to him, as the crew gathered around to watch the distant destruction of the Black Pearl of sorts. "What's wrong?"

He waved a discolored hand at her, seeming to shoo her off. "Nothing…" he sighed. "Nothing at all."

"Bootstrap Bill, answer me." She snapped, grabbing his arm. "Something happened, didn't it?"

He shook his head, staring at her awkwardly. "My son…" he muttered. "He went pirate…"

Michelle's eyes widened. "W-was he on the ship?!" she asked. "Why didn't he come back with you?"

"No, he wasn't there…" Bootstrap sighed. "But he helped retrieve the Pearl back for Sparrow."

"But, he's all right, right?" she asked. Bootstrap shook his head, unsure as to why.

"I don't know…" he said deeply.

There was a loud cheering, the distant splashing indicated the Kraken had found its target. Their work her was done.

"Chevelle." Jones grunted from a few meters away. He had grown accustomed to calling her 'Chevelle' around the rest of the crew. "Yer ta go on land." He demanded. "Go somewhere safe. Ye'll know when its time ta return."

She stared at him, unsure what he was insisting upon. "E-excuse me?" she asked. "Why?"

"Ye'll know." Jones said. "Now, go see Anita…She heard ye last night…"

"Heard what?" she asked. "Me outside?"

Jones laughed heartily. "Ye know what I mean." Michelle stared at him, unsure as to what he was speaking of.

"N-no, I don't." she quirked an eyebrow, but before she could continue once more, Jones shooed her off.

She passed the crew, nodding at each of them as she went to peer into Anita's room. "Captain said you wanted to see me."

"Damn right, I needed to see you!" Anita roared, as Michelle closed the door behind her. "You were standing outside the door when he was with me last night! How dare you listen in on mine and his affairs!"

"I didn't mean to eaves drop…" she muttered. "Curiosity got the best of me."

"And it is the same as eaves dropping!" Anita spat, rising and stepping towards Michelle. "You now know the kind of person I am—"

"And allow me to guess that you would feel absolutely no regret about killing me now, would you?" Michelle snorted. She opened her arms wide, stepping away from the sea goddess. "By all means, go ahead—"

"I would if the Captain wouldn't be sure to hold me as more of a captive than I already am." Came Anita's reply. She reached into the side of her dress, pulling out a small pistol, and held it to underside of Michelle's chin. "And the moment I find out the crew knows of my identity, I will have you killed and fed to the foulest creatures of the ocean's depths…"

"So, that means I get to return here." Michelle retorted, smacking Anita's gun aside. Anita had a disgusted grimace on her face.

"You're sickening." She snarled. "You betray the little trust I gave you, and then you go off with my Captain, changing who he is entirely…To gain that man's trust is a mark against the sea. To gain his approval is a mark against the earth itself."

Michelle eyed her strangely, getting the bizarre image of a man, with a chest length, scraggly, graying, tan beard, but she shook it off. "Pardon?" she asked.

Anita shook her head. "Go." She snorted. "Captain's waiting for you." She sat down at her table again, and seemed to conjure a light on a cerulean candle, and stared deep within the light. "I said go."

Michelle backed away, and on to the main deck once more, there was a long boat being lowered to the water below.

"Th' port is called Tortuga." Jones said suddenly from behind her. Michelle jumped, having not noticed him appear…

But when she turned, it was nothing like the man she had seen before. He was slimmer, with graying hair and a beard which had been put into little sections via beads. His clothing was loosely fit somehow, and both his hands were unchanged, both as human as hers. His eyes were sorrowful, and pained, he began to speak.

But before she could hear him speak, his image had returned. "Is somethin' the matter?" he asked her, almost gentlemanly.

"N-no." she said, heading for the ladder upon the side of the ship to the long boat. "But, how will I know if I'm heading in the right direction?" Jones pointed out to a large rock formation in the distance, possibly five miles or so away.

"That, girl, is Tortuga." He said. "Ye should be safe there fer th' time bein'."

"Safe?" she asked, starting to climb back up.

"Don' be worryin' 'bout that now." Jones assured her, as she began to descend again. "Ye'll know when to come back."

The sea swelled greatly as Michelle struggled just to row the small longboat, but even though the swells were great, the current was strong, there was a slight scent of life in the distance as the glowing lights from the port of Tortuga were growing closer.

It was the smell of fresh cooking and alcohol. Lots of alcohol. The thought of alcohol made her slightly sick to her stomach. She recalled having had a bit sitting with the Captain the night before. She also seemed to recall the Captain having touched her arm, and asking her if it felt like what she saw.

She ignored the thought, and continued to row to shore. She had often heard rumors of Tortuga. Especially from her father. It was a vile place, filled with drunks, prostitutes, and men who had just given up. It was a place, her father said, he hoped to never her of her being in. She hoped inside, that it was still the same now, over two years later.

The small boat docked, and Michelle tied it to a dock, knowing full well, it would probably get stolen. She could hear the drunken slander of men, and cheery music coming from a tavern, which she read, was called the Faithful Bride.

She walked along the streets of kegs, crates and drunks, but every so often, someone, sober or drunk, would look at her, with an amount of concern. The farther she continued, the farther people strayed…from her. As she passed shops, the each closed their curtains, or put up a closed sign. The only place that was not foreboding was the Faithful Bride…or…perhaps, she was the foreboding one.

Silently, she blended in with a small group, entering the tavern. She avoided looking at them all, knowing something was amiss. But as she, hidden amongst the group, entered the tavern, and the group dispersed…there was a long, unnerving silence.

That was, until, a man in the corner rose up, and shouted in a strange English dialect. "That's her!" he screamed. "The Dutchwoman!"

"Pardon?" she asked, as the people of the tavern, men, women, musicians, pirates, and sobers and drunks, all stared at her. "Je ne suis pas hollandaise."

"It's true…" another man said on the other side of the room. "Just as the s'vivors say…"

"Quoi?" she continued, hoping her façade of knowing little English might save her life once again. "Je ne sais pas…Qu'est-ce—" She noticed several pirates reaching for pistols and cutlasses.

"Ya can' be here." Another man said, rising from his seat, hand on his sword. "Tortuga doesn' welcome the dead."

"Je ne suis pas mort!" Michelle screamed. "I'm alive! I am!" More people began to rise, hands on swords, even some swords drawn.

"What's yer purpose in Tortuga, Miss." Another asked. "The Dutchman runnin' low on crew? Did the beast ask ya ta come on land fer 'im ta get some fresh bodies?"

"Is he after more women to abuse?" a young girl, perhaps even younger than Michelle added.

"What's er purpose here!" someone shouted, firing a shot into the air.

"Yer a monster!"

"Get outta our port!"

"No one wants the undead in their town!"

Michelle snatched a pistol from one of the pirates surrounding her, and shot into the air, to silence the convictions. The bullet shot through a bottle, the glass breaking seeming to be more of a shock than the actual firing.

"My name is Michelle Chevelle." She snorted. "My father is Capitain Chevelle, and he presides rule of a ninth of these waters. I am in no way, a deceased member of the crew of the Flying Dutchman." She paused, seeing a few men put away their weapons. "However…" The weapons came out again. "I am there of my own free will."

"Shoot her!" someone commanded from the back. "Kill the lyin' wench!"

"Shoot me for all I care!" Michelle barked, opening her arms wide. "I've lived a full life! Even if I die by the hand of you pirates, there's always a way that I'll return!"

Weapons were hidden again, and the various people around her, seeming to understand the threat, took their seats again.

"I was traded to the Dutchman. I'm collateral until my father is willing to pay his debt to Davy Jones." A few people gasped. A few people began to chant something. "I've had my chance to leave. But I have not taken it. Why? Because who else in the bloody ocean can say that they are free while working on the crew of the Flying Dutchman." She smiled, walking past a few tables. "And I see that it really has given me a reputation!"

She took a seat at an empty table in an unlit area, and smiled to herself. There was no denying it now. Michelle was no longer Michelle Belard, the upperclass daughter of a government official in Martinique. She was now Michelle Chevelle, daughter of one of the most feared pirates in the ocean, the friend of the most feared pirate, and most of all…She was a pirate.

The sliding of metal, and she quickly yanked out her sword, and clashed it up against the opposing one. It was the first man. He was still unconvinced that she was not there to harm anyone. Most of the people in the room had decided that it was safe to trust her for now.

"They may be comf'rable." He growled. "But I'm not lettin' no Dutchman scum stay in my town!" He was an ugly son of a bitch. He spoke as if he was a monster, but he was lanky and thin, with a light brown shirt open over his chest, with a few belts strewn across his body. He hadn't bathed recently, that was obviously, and neither had he shaved, or done something about the horrendous odor of his mouth. All in all, he was foul. He made the crew of the Dutchman seem like noblemen.

Michelle swung her sword so hers was hanging loosely. "I can guarantee you something." She replied with equal, dark sincerity. "One out of every three men in this room will swear an oath to the Dutchman. One of those men, will most likely, as not, be you. And when that time comes, you'll be wishing that you had never spoken unkindly towards the Dutchwoman as you say."

The man laughed uneasily. "Then it'd be best if I just ended up killin' ya now, huh?" The man jabbed his sword at Michelle's chest, and laughed, saying. "Let's see yer Captain take yer body back after I'm done with ya!" The sword aimed closer, but there was the loud, estranged echo of pistol fire.

The man suddenly dropped his sword, and clutched his chest. The light, fleshy brown color of the shirt began to turn a disgusting maroon color as blood began to pour from the entry wound. He grasped at his skin, and before he could even speak another word, he fell over. Dead.

"Women are not to be treated as criminals." A prestigious, eloquent voice said. "Even if they are a criminal." There stood a man, dressed extremely dashingly compared to the rest of the men Michelle had scene that day. His clothing was brighter, and maintained far better, with a sort of regal charm to them. Upon his head sat a military hat, commonly worn by the men of the British Navy, as well as a poorly maintained powdered wig. It was the only thing not kept clean. He had a pistol held in hand, pointed forward at the spot where Michelle's could-have-been attacker stood, in his other, a bottle, filled with what was obviously rum.

Michelle's eyes lit up, and she knew, even with the unsuitable bottle of rum, that the man who had just saved her life, was none other, than the British Gentleman: James Norrington.