AN: Sorry about the horrible, terrible wait. The bottom of my summer fell out and I had things piled on me as soon as it got started. The influx of storms here hasn't been helping either. I feel rotten for taking this long. Again, apologies!

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-Tales from the End of the World: The Child, the Man, and the Monster-

The Child

He was dead. Shot through the heart. He came alive ultimately to feel his death. And where now was the man so evil, Hell itself spat him back out? Well…Hector Barbossa was in Hell. Or, at least, on the way to it. How else can one describe Davy Jones' Locker as anything but a haunted sort of limbo? Souls who die at sea are kept there, waiting for Jones to come ferry them to the other side. Those few who are sentenced there for failing to pay a debt to Jones or even those sad few who are washed onto the wasteland's shores by chance are forced to endure their worst nightmares for eternity. And though he wasn't forced to endure the worst fate he could bring upon himself, eternity had a fairly bleak outlook for Barbossa.

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"I feel…cold."

Jack Sparrow standing before him, pistol smoking. Turner on the treasure mound behind him. Elizabeth several yards away. He could distinctly feel the changes of his expression. Upon realizing he could feel again, he almost smiled during the phrase. But, that hope gave way to despair as he easily recognized the sensation of cold, the word passing his lips in a fearful uttering. His half smile faded and he felt himself falling. That was where things grew dark. That was when he died. No life events had passed before his eyes. There was no light of death that called to him. He left the living world with only the image of Jack Sparrow grim, sober, and coldly determined; an uncharacteristically frightening thing in itself…

Barbossa came to at the gentle rocking sensation one gets while riding in a longboat. A boat? His eyes opened one at a time and his groggy mind attempted to register the surroundings. First off, he found it was night. No stars dotted the sky and there wasn't even a moon out. Fog blanketed the surface of the water. Secondly, he was sitting straight up, if a bit shakily. That's odd, he thought to himself. He was fallen on a mound of treasure the last time he'd been conscious. Thirdly, he was indeed sitting in a longboat. It was a fair sized one with room enough for four people to sit comfortably. There were no oars. Some flickering remnant of competent thought registered that as something annoying and he pulled a face. In the prow of the boat was a light, a weak, sputtering oil lamp suspended on a black iron hanger. Now, of all places, what was he doing in a boat? The thing even seemed to move of its own accord. He leaned a little over the gunnels to look at the water quizzically. It was then he noticed the other boats.

There were hundreds of them, oar-less, light-led boats just like his moving with out any obvious means of motion. It seemed as if there was an entire fleet of them. And he was in the back, the spread of boats stretched out before him. Endless, they seemed, the lights bright even into the dark, curtain of fog that hid the black horizon. In each boat was a person, sometimes two, as was the case of the boat nearest to him. A set of twins, girls, were sitting silently in their little boat, eyes staring ahead. Perhaps they would know what this place was. "Ahoy," he called, waving one hand slightly to get their attention. There was really no need to call out; the silence of this dark place was almost deafening.

The call had no effect on the girls whatsoever. It was as if he wasn't even there. It's as if he was a ghost or something. Barbossa's expression was open-mouthed, brow furrowed thickly over clueless eyes. It was obvious to anyone who spent large amounts of time around Hector Barbossa that something had managed to throw this loathsome, stubborn, highly adept, overly-confident pirate for a loop. And what was this something? Why, it was death.

This concept seemed to strike him as he gazed over the boat-choked water. He looked down, holding his hands out before him. There was a pale, deathly quality to them. An eternal cold had settled into his bones and nipped sharply at his fingers and toes. A shudder, unwelcome and unsettling, passed over him and his gaze turned almost frightened. "I'm dead." As he stared at his hands, the blot of red staining a large amount of the left side of his chest came to light. There, black with clotted and coagulated blood, was a small round bullet hole directly over his heart. More of the red had soaked into his jacket and trailed down his front. The aim was unmistakable; Jack would have been a laughable pirate indeed if he had missed at point blank. The uneasy fright that had clouded his features gave way to a flash of anger at the mere thought of Sparrow. If only he could just get his hands on that conniving little…

But he couldn't. His expression fell mournfully. He, Barbossa, was dead in this limbo and Jack was alive on earth. It was only his luck. Heaving a sigh, he cast a rueful eye over the dark waters. It was safe to assume he would become as ghoul like as these other poor souls. All that was left was to wait. "It's a sorry state of affairs ye've gotten us into." The sudden voice spun Barbossa a startled 180 degrees around in his seat. He looked down next to him and found someone sitting there on his right.

There, sitting next to him, was a boy. Clad in only a worn white shirt and a pair of knickers that were too short, his scrawny frame seemed to consist only of bone, skin, and wire. Dirt or soot capped his elbows, clouded his features. There were light shades of ginger in his shaggy mop of brownish hair. His feet were dirty and bare. The boy was clearly an urchin of some sort, for he carried the unmistakable aura of a child of the city streets, called lovingly in French by a well-spoken author, an immortal gamin. He turned a level look upwards to meet Barbossa's incredulous expression. The boy's ice blue eyes were all too familiar and yet, the pirate wasn't sure where he'd seen them before.

"I mean, really…" The boy gestured to the blood on Barbossa's chest. "Shot through the heart? Ye could've done better, boy-o." He slapped Barbossa lightly on the back with a regretful wince. The pirate merely stared at him, still caught up in the fact that the boy had definitely not been there thirty seconds ago. He couldn't have just popped out of thin air. Could he? "I take it yer wonderin' how I managed t' join ye?" the boy queried, amusement showing on his face. Barbossa could only nod and stutter out an 'aye.' "It's a good thing. If ye weren't, I'd say yez been here before." The boy's laugh was an unpleasantly familiar thing. "Well, in a manner o' speakin', the only reason I'm here is because you are. I wouldn't be much o' continuin' if ye weren't, considerin' I'm you. I-"

"Hold on!" Barbossa declared suddenly. "You're who?"

The boy seemed irritated at the interruption. "I'm you," he replied slowly as if her were speaking to someone hard of hearing.

"Now how is that possible? I happen t' be right here and here only."

"I could eas'ly say the same thing," the boy countered, eyeing him. "How d'ye know I'm not really you and yer not just some wraith what's come to give me what fer?"

The boy made a valid point but Barbossa was no fool, even if he was dead. "Yer not gonna fool me with that. I know full well that I was in this boat first and ye weren't there a moment ago," he replied.

"True, that," the boy admitted, stroking his chin. "Suppose it ain't worth continuing' on that note. I can see yer not like these brainless saps." He motioned to the other boats with a thrown out arm. Indeed, it was as if they didn't have any sort of consciousness. None of them had even registered the conversation.

"Rightly so."

"Now, as I were sayin'…I'm here be-"

"Ye never told me how ye got here."

"I'm a bit unsure about that meself. If ye'll allow me t' finish…?" The boy fixed Barbossa with an indignant stare. The pirate stared back at him a moment before answering.

"Apologies, mate. Continue."

"Rightly so." Barbossa didn't miss the boy's mocking tone. "I'm here because you are. In the most literal sense of the word spirit, I'm a fraction of what makes you the man ye are. Laymen's terms, I'm a younger you, age twelve. Had we not been the lad we was in London, ye wouldn't be here n' ye certainly wouldn't be a pirate."

Barbossa sat back a little to mull over what the boy said. "So…ye represent some sort o' facet of me character, then?"

"Aye. Ye could say I'm yer confidence n' yer mettle, among other things."

"Such other things bein'…?"

The boy scratched the tip of his nose. "Eh…pride, too, I s'ppose."

"Ah," he replied, looking up ahead of them. It made sense, he figured. In an odd, out of mind way. He wondered absently if this had happened to any of the other souls nearby. Barbossa looked back at the boy, the young Hector. "If yer really a younger me, I have a question fer ye."

"What be that?" came the ready reply, keen gaze flicking up to meet the pirate's.

"Fer what reason did we leave Ireland?" Boy Hector's keen gaze fell slightly, a bit of sneering curve toying with his mouth.

"Mum had an affair with a Protestant n' married 'im. With our Irish side bein' entirely Catholic, that was purely unacceptable. The rotters pushed us out, disowned us. There weren't a place in the country where we'd be welcome. We, meanin' you n' I, were only six at the time." The boy's unhesitant reply was really the deciding factor. The question had an answer that only Barbossa would know. Whatever relatives of his that were left alive had no doubt long since forgotten their wayward daughter, her dog of a husband, and their mongrel child. The pirate nodded to himself, satisfied but in a mood no better. He toyed with the idea that perhaps this apparition of his former self was here to judge him. That was feasible, wasn't it? Maybe this place was some sort of limbo which, depending on the judgment, was either the Devil's doorstep or the threshold to Paradise. For Barbossa, most certainly the former. All as long as this wasn't some sign of his sanity.

He felt a touch on his shoulder and turned to find his younger self patting it all while wearing a grin. "Don't ye fret. Yer not goin' insane from bein' dead. We're here for a reason."

The Man

"We?" Barbossa's tone was genuinely perplexed. Boy Hector grinned but, it was not he who replied to the incredulous question.

"Aye, we." The pirate, surprised, looked up at the seat before him to find yet another person had appeared from thin air. This one was no child but the feathered hat and familiar blue eyes were obvious clues as to the new comer's identity. As if one of him wasn't already enough. Barbossa was not enthused. The entire situation was getting incredibly frustrating.

"Am I t' be plagued then by various versions of meself until I really do go insane?" The newest occupant of the boat grinned unpleasantly and glanced at boy Hector. This one seemed to be in his mid twenties, right about the time Barbossa had been washed overboard. The cocky smirk Barbossa never truly lost had been even more prevalent at that age. That immortal orphan air had dissipated and it was more one along the lines of a man who haughtily thought himself immortal and really wasn't.

"Seems he can b' taught," he stated sarcastically, jerking a thumb in the older pirate's direction. The boy would have usually laughed and agreed. However, he knew himself rather well and he didn't fail to notice the glowering expression on his older self's face.

"Belay that, Hector," he said sternly, swinging a hand at the other.

"The 'ol stiff can't take a joke? And don't call me Hector," Hector replied impertinently. Of the two, it turned out that the younger was more business-like than the older. Barbossa saw that plainly and was amazed. He would have laughed were he that type of person. He was learning more about himself from himself than anyone else could have told him. Yet, while he applauded himself for being these two at their respective ages, he now knew how his fellows and crew mates felt like in his company.

The second Hector 'pishawed' at the younger. "Who died n' made you leader?"

"Well, fer starters…"

"Just 'cause you found 'im first."

"Don't get yer petticoats in a wad. "T'ain't my fault yer so slow." The older Hector made as if to get up when their little spat was interrupted.

"Shut it, the both of ye!" Both Hectors jumped at Barbossa's outburst. The pirate was on his feet. He fixed both of his selves with a sharp look that even they had trouble meeting. "Quite yer squabblin' n' if ye have a reason t' be here like ye said ye did, then get on with it. If ye don't, then leave me t' be dead in peace!" The other Hectors sat in abashed silence for a moment. Barbossa 'hmphed' and crossed his arms over his chest. "'Tis a good thing there weren't more o' me durin' me life. Seems I can't even work with meself without startin' some sort o' row!"

It was a fourth voice, again familiar but plainly different, that replied in a low, dark tone. "Oh, but we outgrow that, don't we?"

The Monster

All three's gazes snapped to the once empty space next to the mid-twenties Hector. There, in all his rotted, walking corpse glory, was a present age Barbossa in the throes of the Aztec curse. "Seems I've arrived a bit late." Out of the corner of his eye, Barbossa could see Boy Hector's eyes grow wide. His second self, upon the appearance of the dark Barbossa, had nearly jumped out of the boat. It was obvious neither of them had bet on this facet to show up. Barbossa himself, on the other hand, merely sighed quietly. "Ye know, I was wonderin' when you would show up." The corpse managed to grin without any lips and shrugged.

"Can't have Hector Barbossa without me," he admitted. Barbossa smirked.

"So let me get this all straight, then." He looked down at the boy. "Yer confidence n' grit." Then to the next one. "You must be arrogance n' honor." And finally to the corpse. Here, Barbossa smirk's broadened to reveal his yellow teeth. "An' you must be everythin' else. Me dark side."

The corpse's returning smirk was blood-curdling. "Cortez says hello," he drawled. Barbossa could almost call his tone sadistic. Of his selves, this was the one he was most acquainted with in his opinion. None of the silly, childish nonsense of the other two.

"My regards," Barbossa replied, simultaneously bowing and removing his hat with a flourish. "Now, all o' ye." His hat was replaced and he grew serious. "Explain t' me yer reason fer bein'." The two younger Hectors, eyeing the corpse one, recovered from their surprise and slight aversion enough to glance up at Barbossa's request.

"Well, it seems we were summoned t' come find you," began the youngest.

"By someone ye know but prob'ly don't remember," said the second.

"Tia Dalma sent us," said the third frankly. Barbossa's brow furrowed as he tried to call to mind the face that went with the name. There was a significance to it, that he knew. "Think back about say…twenty years or so."

Twenty years? That would put him about the same age as the second Hector. He was still on the Kracken then, if he hadn't already been washed overboard…Ah! "D'ye mean that bizarre voodoo woman what found me washed ashore?" he queried.

"Aye," all three said at once. Barbossa was slightly taken aback at this. He sat back down, one finger tapping his chin thoughtfully. Now what would Tia Dalma want with him? It was odd that she should still remember him. Although, he did somewhat recall her saying she would keep track of him. What for, though? The boy spoke up.

"She said ye owed her a thanks. But that was all."

The pirate looked quizzically at him. "She didn't happen to tell ye why she wanted ye t' find me?"

"Nay."

"Odd. So she's just goin' t' all this trouble fer me t' return a favor."

The older Hector and the corpse Hector glanced at each other. "Off the record, we're actually convinced it ain't just about returnin' a favor." Barbossa watched the boy nod in agreement.

"An' branchin' offa that, there be a slight possibility…"

"Of what?"

"Of ye bein' brought back. To life."

"Brought back…" The mere thought had his mind racing. Perhaps things weren't so bleak after all! Here, possibly slapping himself in the face was a chance to make history and return from the dead! He could practically feel the corpse's startlingly palpable gaze trying to bore into him. Immediately, a large number of nefarious thoughts entered his mind. Barbossa almost couldn't keep from smirking. Here…was the chance at revenge. He took all three of them in with a half-lidded glance, another thought figuratively throwing a wrench. "But just how d'ye propose I get back?"

"That was a thought we didn't happen t' entertain. She didn't rightly tell us what t' do when we found ye," the boy replied almost ruefully. The other two nodded; even the corpse seemed a bit frustrated. Silence, the deafening thing that had struck Barbossa not long after he arrived in his boat, resumed.

So Tia Dalma's reasons were her own and it could be that perhaps she did not trust Barbossa's various selves with them. This had to be something more than just a casual 'you're welcome' she wanted. There were far too many possibilities; it could be that he was a pirate lord or that he had valuable knowledge about a curse or a number of different things. That they didn't know what to do was off setting his plans. The corpse heaved a sigh through his still existent nose, disappointed. Barbossa glanced up at him just as the dark Hector turned to look to his left. Automatically it seemed, Barbossa's eyes landed on the trinket hanging from the corpse's ear.

"That's it," he said suddenly to himself. The others looked at him quizzically. His hand floated up to grip the tiger claw earring hanging from his own right ear. The corpse registered this at seeing the gesture.

"Ah."

"What?" The question came simultaneously at them from the two younger Hectors. The second-arrived Hector must have been not yet washed overboard. He didn't seem to recognize the earring and he wasn't wearing one.

"While I was in Tia Dalma's possession, she had the thought to give me this. I didn't exactly know why she gave it t' me but…I remember, as I were leavin', she told me t' use it should I ever find meself dead before me time," Barbossa replied. He lifted his other hand to the earring, searching for some sort of catch so maybe it would come off.

"But how are we supposed t' use it?" asked Boy Hector. They all seemed to be at a loss when Barbossa suddenly emitted a noise of triumph. While feeling over the odd accessory, he had twisted on the claw thinking that it may have been screwed into the base. It had been. He worked the claw around and once detached of its base, he held it aloft. The other three leaned in to look at it.

His head felt strangely lighter without the familiar weight there. Though it had been hanging in his ear for almost twenty years, Barbossa had never really looked closely at the thing. It was about two inches long, whitish colored, and the tip seemed to have been dipped in some sort of orange paint that was starting to fade. Even if it wasn't actually from a tiger, it certainly belonged to some sort of ferocious beast. Barbossa turned it over his hands. All four of them noticed it at the same time.

Stuffed into where the claw had been screwed into the base was a tiny rolled up piece of parchment. They could see the black of ink through the yellowed paper. Using a careful touch, Barbossa pulled it out. He dropped the claw into an available pocket and set to unrolling the paper. Only one word was written on the paper. Boy Hector read it aloud, his finger tracing a line under the word as he sounded it out.

"Cah-lip-so."

There was a collective expression of confusion, brows furrowed, mouth pulled into an almost sideways frown, one eyebrow quirked curiously. "Calypso? That's just the name o' some heathen sea goddess. How's that supposed to help?" the mid-twenties Hector queried, glancing up at the others. It was a fifth voice that beat any of the Hectors to replying.

"Ya turnin' out tah be more dan I could evah expect. Told ya ya'd be goin' some bizarre places, Hector Haywood."