[A/N- yes, it's here, finally. My apologies for the lack of updates, and it's long (for me) to make up for it. There is more to come. When it comes. This is the hard part to write, as we're getting toward the end.]

Sleep. Something about sleep. Wasn't it important, or…. Something. She had no idea of the passage of time. Life was a nightmare, raped in the dark, beaten in daylight. She knew that they were trying to break her. But why?… she was forgetting things. Names, times, memories. Whose eyes were those, the brown ones, that kept haunting her nightmares? She glanced around desperately, praying for a way to knock herself unconscious before the crew took advantage of her in broad daylight, again.

Wait… what was? White. Sails. No. She turned her eyes back to Jonathan's with a speed that would have broken her neck, had it been her head moving. He mustn't see. She was backed against the bulwark; all their backs were to that speck of white.
All she could do to give him an advantage, to keep their attention toward her, was negligible. She would do it. She bit back the urge to cry, to fall sobbing. He had come, he had come.
Maybe there was hope for her in hell, after all.
She laughed, a small sprinkling of gratitude laced with the insanity she had created for herself, and stepped back up on the railing. One jump, and they would be goners. It would give him more than enough time. Not for her, she wouldn't… but it was how it was. She traced one bare toe off the railing, back over the sea, dipping her knee with the utmost balance, and, winking savagely at her captors, pushed herself backwards.
The wrist snagged her ankle almost immediately, and her head smashed against the hull of the ship, causing her to hang in a daze momentarily, before renewing the battle against the hand that held her foot. She was dragged back up on the deck as the entire crew sought to get their hands on her, to kick, bite, punch, grope, something. She was like some infernal drug to them, and had never understood, why the addiction.
Why do all these fucking men want me?
The words were etched in her brain. The hatred went even deeper, and she swore to herself that no man was getting her again without her terms. And that was all. She was sick of it. Sick of the hopelessness, the despair, sick of fighting to live with nothing to live for.
It took a little groping in the pile of bodies, but she finally got her hands on one, and with a little work, a second. She didn't even aim; she just cocked the pistol and pointed straight up.
Blood poured out of the bastard's gut as he lay, screaming, on top of her. She pushed him off, grabbing his pistols and tossing the wasted one. What good was an empty one to her?
Think fast, Kitty.
She caught the motion out of the corner of her eye, and without conscious thought, cocked the pistol and sent a bullet flying into another man's head. All eyes were on her. Some had the sense to reach for their weapons, and some were to dumbfounded by their toy's rebellion. But she had time. She had time.
Pistol barrel in the corner of her eye. She shot, and off went the arm. She snagged the extra pistols from the second man down.
***
Jack pulled the Hawk as close as he could, his brain racing. Why, why, why was no one paying attention to his ship? Were they that confident? Or was it something worse?
He brought the crew with him, behind him, climbing the grappling hooks onto the helm. He disabled the rudder chain quickly, hacking away the piece of wood that pulled it. The crew was behind him, and in front of him…
Her eyes were the only part of her he couldn't see well, her shirt was so ripped that the form… or lack thereof, as it were, of her breasts were clear. Her trousers were shredded. There wasn't a spot of her skin that wasn't bruised, or bloody, or raw. In fact, the only reason he recognized her was the fact she was laughing manically, pointing a pistol into the throng of pirates, reckless and incredibly stupid.
There had to be a reason he loved her- besides the tendency to get herself in over her head.
He watched her turn her head, and in a flash, she saw him, and their eyes met. It was like falling in love all over again, and suddenly everything was in slow motion.
The crew flung themselves forward behind him, and everything erupted as the battle scene closed before his eyes. He didn't have the strength to move. It wasn't what she wanted.
Her eyes in his, from so far away still, had begged him to leave. They had begged for an end. And he had no idea how to deal with it.
"ENOUGH!!" Four shots rang through the air, and the entire company parted, Alinnya standing right in the middle, pistols in hand. She turned to rage at Jack's crew, snarling vehemently, pistols everywhere and nowhere at once. But they'd already made short work of most of the Hawk. There were only a half a dozen left.

"Get back on your own fucking ship." There was nothing recognizable in her manner. That mild aloofness, the insecurity, was gone, and he could now lay claim to loving a cold, heartless, bloodthirsty bitch. The men backed against her snarling countenance, but not before she managed to strip half of them of their weapons. He watched Jonathan step forward to aim a pistol at her, but she spun, and the shot rang out on the silent deck, as she tossed the pistol to the side. He backed, his hands groping at the bloody mangle of his trousers at his groin. Jack winced. Jonathan screamed, and the tall African made a flying leap for Alinnya. She shot him straight in both kneecaps, laughing harshly as he fell to the deck, roaring. She snagged his sword out of its scabbard and lifted his chin with it, fire burning in her eyes as she sliced straight up his face, carving off the majority of his scalp. Jack watched, his face stone, as she consisted to carve the living hell out of this one man, like a child's finger-paints in blood. It was ghastly.

"Get back to the ship. Be ready to set sail." He told his crew, standing and walking back to his own helm, to escape some of the insanity, the stench of gunpowder and blood.

It was a solid half hour before the screaming ended, and she crawled her way, bloody and bruised, back onto his ship. She wasn't really looking anybody in the eye, just walking, mechanically, toward the helm.

"Prep the guns, get us a good range. We'll shoot the bitch down." Jack stood at the wheel, eyeing his first mate warily. She was free… did she even recognize that, now? The look in her eyes was haunted, terrifying.

The guns shot out at the remnants of the Hawk as the wind twisted the ship. One lucky ball hit the powder room, and the ship burst in a ball of flame on the open sea.

It was such a satisfying sight that Jack almost didn't notice.

In fact, she was almost halfway across the deck, barreling at breakneck speed toward the rail, before he figured out what she was doing. He raced after her, catching her just as she got to the rail, and drug her back, screaming.

He held her facedown on the deck, not sure what to do.

He'd never had to deal with a crying woman before.