Jones' magnificent beard writhed in anger in from of Cass' face, which had contorted into a scowl of the same feeling. She did as commanded by Mercer and he, who had waited so long, it felt, to hold her in his arms was left with naught but air in his grip. And yet he saw that she had not backed down, not yet. She stood at his side, sword in hand, looking very dangerous. The steely anger in her eyes was rivaled by the coldness of those of Ian Mercer, who in turn had also drawn his weapon. The three buckets he was carrying, which were to be used to get Jones back to the longboat and from there to the Dutchman, fell from his grasp. One rolled close enough that Jones could reach out and grasp it, but he didn't move to take it. Instead, he would wait until Mercer was in direct conflict, and henceforth distracted to make a move. That way, he would be able to help Cass, despite his uselessness on land. He was unable to do anything without the damned buckets on land, and would not be able to for the next nine years. Not for the first time did he curse the wretched goddess and her bloody task.

"Do you have a problem?" Her voice was even, schooled almost. She would have no problem killing rat-man, never even think about him after this day. To her, he was simply one more obstacle to be overcome on her way to her goal. Jones did not know how many gauntlets she had taken up in order to be who she was here and now. She had returned from the Locker, attempted to kill a goddess, fully knowing the consequences should she fail. She had faced his ship, as well as himself, and had strengthened herself from the experience. From her grip on the blade in her hand, she had obviously had some training in swordplay, and by the pistol in her belt, she could defend herself relatively well.

On the other hand, when he had first met her, she had been a weak little thing, inevitably not knowing how to defend herself. The little knife she had once possessed had been lost to the sea, and that was the only weapon she had had with her. He supposed he could find it, if it meant that much to her. Somehow, he was sure it didn't, and even if she had the option of having it back she would not want to.

"To why a young wench like yourself would willingly throw yourself at that," Mercer gestured with his sword at Jones, who scowled. "No. Lord Beckett will want to know, however, as the matter now concerns him." He saw her muscles tense, as if she would leap on him at any moment, simply 'forgetting' her modern weapons and tear him up with her nails and teeth. He imagined that he did not look much better, to be insulted on such a low level. Even for Mercer, who Jones knew had no qualms about low, unfair blows, outdid himself. Cassandra, however, must be somewhat used to the jibes, having been around Sparrow for so long.

In less than the time it took to blink she was a step away from the offending man, slapping him soundly across the face. His head whipped to the left, and some spittle flew from his mouth. He stumbled backwards, but did not fall. That was taken care of by a well-placed knee to certain tender parts of his anatomy. Cass, as it turned out, had no problems with low blows either. She stood over the man, who was pitifully curled up and clutching his crotch. She smirked down at him and placed her sword at his neck. "I imagine that problem is rather insignificant now, isn't it?" Mercer managed to nod, and Cassandra sheathed her sword. "Good. Now get up and face me like a man."

Jones picked up the bucket, filling it with the water he had been standing in for far too long. Placing it back on the sand, he took a step, deliberately placing his armored crab-leg in the bucket of water. Now he could almost reach the other two, if he could just reach-

Mercer stood shakily, using his sword to help him up. She was surely mocking him now, letting him back up. Or maybe she was just board, or insulted, or wanting to prove that she could, and would, kill. That much he could tell from her eyes, not her actions. However, the man was much more of a convincing liar than either had anticipated, and Cass only had a moments notice as the pain vanished from his face before he lunged, kicking her legs from under her. Now he stood above her, sword at her throat. The smile was now on his face, but it faded slightly to see it echoed on her face. Her foot, though he could not see it, was touching the bucket Jones was attempting to reach. By kicking it over, Jones would enter the fight. "Why are you smiling at certain death, wench?"

She laughed, and Jones fought back one as well as she kicked over the bucket. "I've been over the edge and over again, crewed a ship of the damned, and done more than you ever will in the face of death. I simply don't care if you run me through with that sword. I also know you will never get the chance."

Despite the shock of what she had just said, Jones brought down his own sword in a clean downstroke aimed at Mercer's spine. The blow was deflected though, but with only enough force to divert the blade. Instead, it cut into his side, creating a wound that would need attention sooner rather than later.

Cass was back on her feet, and as Mercer went after Jones, she attempted to make it as hard for him to move as possible. A three-way sword fight ensured, though Jones felt very upset about not being able to properly fight, what with standing in a bloody bucket and all. Mercer was a very capable fighter, and with Jones handicapped and Cassandra not extraordinarily capable herslef, he stood a chance.

Seemingly knowing this, he did his best to move the fight from Jones and towards Cass, who in turn attempted to push back towards Jones. She kicked at his ribs, and while he was distracted, hurled a handful of sand in his face. As he spat it out, she kicked his legs from under him, pressing his face into the sand so he was forced to breath it in. He threshed, and she rolled away from him, landing on her feet evenly, already ready for the next blow. They were a good distance from Jones now, and he yelled angrily, attempting to hurl the third bucket, which Cass has also tossed to him somewhere in the fight, at Mercer's head.

Luck was with the EITC man, however, as it missed him when he ducked Cass' blow as well. The bucket, still airborne, hit Cassandra square in the temple, knocking her out, her eyes crossed. Mercer prepared to stab her trough the chest, looking rather satisfied. Jones saw what was about to happen and without another thought leapt from the bucket and as far as he could. He landed a few feet from Mercer, and as soon as he touched the ground, pain shot through him. The curse would not kill him, as the Dutchman would always need a captain so the bloody goddess would not have to take the role again. Instead, it would inflict blinding pain until he was on a ship again, or at least standing in a bucket.

Damned buckets. Damned curse. Damned everything, dammit!

His lungs felt like they were eating themselves, sharp little teeth stabbing into them at every intake of breath. His stomach churned, and he worried that he might empty its contents onto his own boots. Well, boot. He didn't really know where the other boot was at the present. His beard writhed, his flesh burned, and his nerves scorched at his every move. Still, he closed the distance between himself and the attacker. His face twitched, and his vision went dark for a moment. With arms strengthened by pain and rage, he hauled the man off of her, bodily throwing him away. He sailed through the air limply, landing on his own arm. A sick-sounding crack issued from said limb as it broke from the impact. Fighting the pain, he stepped forward again, staring down at his enemy. "I will not bother asking if ye fear death, Ian Mercer. You ought to-uh." He drove the blade in his hand into the fallen man's chest, just above the heart. He twisted the blade, causing rat-face to gasp in pain. Jones smiled evilly and left the man to die. Beckett would hear of this, but it would be on his terms.

First, he had to get to his bucket, though. The pain was getting to be a bit annoying.

/

The cool seawater brought instant relief from the gut-wrenching pain, as predicted, and yet his head still rung with it. Every so often he would shake it, his tan tickles fanning out around him like one of those absurd collars all those old, dead scholars and philosophers wore. He had picked Cass up, and had carried her back to his bucket, stumbling very few steps until he reached the glorious blue. He had shifted her limp body of his crab arm, using the other to pick up the bucket behind him. He stood on one foot, only encountering a problem when he must put his weight in his pointed and unstable crab leg. Having no choice, he did so and promptly fell to the scorching sand again, the water from both remaining buckets spilling around him. Agony claimed him once more, and his vision went black.

/

The jolt from the sudden drop woke her from her 'slumber'. For a moment, she had no idea where she was, what had just happened, and who had dropped her. All she knew was that she was now face down in the sand, and in danger of inhaling the grainy stuff if she didn't move, now.

That was exactly what she did, and when she did, she came face to face with one Davy Jones. For a moment, it looked as if he were simply asleep next to her. Then his face contorted, once, twice, thrice, and she was sure that no, he was not asleep. What was more, he was on land. The curse did not allow him to be on land, so either it was his one day to make bearth, or he was in quite a bit if pain. Judging from the buckets, it was the latter. Summoning up her strength, she stood and attempted to haul the great captain to the shallows, which were not but a meter away. She heaved, maybe gaining a centimeter, if that. Frustrated, she kept pulling on his arm, determined to not let him suffer another moment.

An idea crossed her mind: if she threw water on the sand, it would be much easier to pull him along, and might even ease the pain. Quickly she did so, using the buckets that had come in so handy in the last half hour. This time, when she pulled, he moved, sliding down the slight decline until his face was in the shallows. Another tug and he was fully submerged. His chest heaved a great sigh of relief at the vanishing of the pain. Cass kept him slightly floating on his back, as most of him was able to tough the bottom of the sea from this point. Tentatively, she touched his face, feeling his slightly slimy flesh beneath the palm of her hand. "Both you and I know we cannot love, but what love I have is yours," she said, knowing full well he could not hear her if he was unconscious.

The catch was, when he had been submerged into the water, he woke. Feeling her holding him, accepting his appearance, bringing him out of the agony of the curse had made him want to stay 'asleep' for just a while longer, just to be in this place with her. "A very good thing as I do not plan on letting ye leave again-uh." His mind went reeling back to what she had said earlier, about being raped and all. "Especially not until that bastard Sparrow is dealt with."

Cass pretended not to hear the last part, dismissing it as Jones's anger that Jack had escaped the Locker, as well as the debt he owed.