A/N: Thanks for the reviews. Keep them coming, s'il vous plait! Also, a warning: there is some strong language in this chapter.

Disclaimer: Don't own.

Jade leaned over the side, letting her hair blow loosely in the sea breeze. She was uncharacteristically clad in a thin white shirt, khaki shorts, and sandals; might as well get as much use out of her summer clothes as possible, she reasoned, before they were completely immersed in bitter cold. To port, Tierra del Fuego, the southernmost point of Argentina, slipped past the ship soundlessly.

André, despite himself, found himself casting surreptitious sidelong glances at Jade. He began to sing softly: "Seven days a week, every hour of the month, gotta let you know where my heart is comin' from…"

Jade turned to him. "Who was that song for, anyway? I mean, I always assumed it was Vega, but…"

André fingered his collar, which had suddenly grown uncomfortably tight. "Uh…hey! Look at that! There's some kind of white mushroom-things clinging to the hull! What if they eat through it and we start taking on water?"

She chuckled. "Those are barnacles, André. They end up on every ship sooner or later. Not much of an ocean-goer, are you?"

"Hey, cut me some slack. I grew up in South Central L.A. The closest thing we ever got to an 'open body of water' was when some kids took the top off a fire hydrant. And anyway, you're one to talk. Didn't you say on Queries for Couples that you hate the ocean?"

"Um…yeah…about that…I may have…" Ashamed, she lowered her voice until it was virtually inaudible. "…may have said that just to needle Beck." God, why did I always have to come up with some pretext to pick a fight?

André sighed. "Jade, you're awesome, but you gotta learn that people ain't just your punching bags, y'know?"

"Believe me, I know." She looked at André and was impressed to see him perfectly steady. "Hey – for somebody who's never been at sea before, you're sure doing well. No sea-sickness or anything."

"Yeah…which is more than I can say for some people." He tilted his head ever so slightly to his left, where, farther down the railing, the stalwart Captain Hieronymus Farmer was currently retching copiously over the side.

"Oy! It's not sea-sickness, ye landlubber, it's me…me medicine. It's done me a bad turn," said the Captain, as an empty vodka bottle slipped from his pocket and clattered to the deck. "But I'll be just fine, never you mind…just dandy…" He began to sing, horribly off-key. "Yo ho ho and a bottle of…pieces of eight…Way, hey, blow the…mainsail down…bugger." And he sprawled face-forward once again.

"Thank you, Jesus, for autopilot," said Jade to the sunny sky.

"Amen," said André. "Hey – what's that, coming up…whatchamacallit…astern?"

"Hmm? I don't see anything…no, wait. You must have eagle eyes. It looks like…a boat. Coming up fast, too." She tensed up. "Too fast."

From the distant craft, there was a short burst of crackling into the air.

Automatic weapon fire.

"Jade, get into the cabin, and lock yourself in there," André said instantly.

"But…"

"God damn it, don't argue with me now! Get in the cabin!"

She would have protested again, but the look in André's eyes forestalled her. His harsh words notwithstanding, there was no anger in his eyes – only concern. Concern…and fear.

Without another word, she raced to the cabin.

"Captain Farmer!" André yelled. "Trouble!"

The prostrate form didn't move.

"Shit," the musician muttered. "Gonna have to do this by myself, I guess."

Inside the cabin, Jade picked up the radio handset. "Mayday, mayday, SOS. This is the Mary Celeste 2, near…somewhere…um, Argentina, I think…we're under attack by pirates…hello? Hello? Is anyone receiving me?"

There was no answer. She pulled open the radio casing, and was greeted by a nest of dangling wires that had been chewed through by some small animal. "Oh, God."

As the speedboat drew alongside the Mary Celeste, a man who appeared to be its captain stood up, and shouted through a microphone in an Eastern European accent André couldn't quite place: "American vessel! Prepare to be boarded!"

"Prepare to go fuck yourselves!" André shouted back.

"Very stupid, Yankee. And now you will be very dead." The captain stepped aside as two of his crew, toting what looked to be AK-47 knockoffs, hurled grappling hooks over the side of the Mary Celeste and began to clamber up.

Modern-day pirates, thought André. Un-freakin'-believable. He rifled through the nearby toolbox until he found what he was looking for – a gargantuan sailor's knife. He scrambled toward the grappling hooks and began to chop, cut, slash frantically. At last the rope, hopelessly frayed, gave way; and with a brief cry, the first of the pirates toppled back into his boat.

One down, one to go…"AAGH!" The spray of rifle fire might have been poorly aimed – the second pirate was, after all, forced to aim his weapon with one hand while clinging to the climbing rope with the other – but it was almost inevitable that out of so many bullets, at least one would find its mark; and so it did. The hot lead pierced André's right shoulder, shattering bone, severing tendon, and lodged itself in the cabin wall behind him.

His right arm was practically useless now, but he had no intention of giving up. Switching the knife to his left hand, he began to hack away again, with less success this time. The pirate, grinning, was almost at the top…

Can't let Jade down. Gotta keep her safe. Whatever it takes. He discarded the knife and began to tear at the rope with his teeth. One strand at a time, with cruel slowness, it gave way. Just as the pirate was swinging his leg over the side, the rope at last snapped, and he lost his footing.

Now's my chance. André put his head down and bull-rushed the tottering man. With a single "OOOMPH!", the pirate fell, this time missing the boat completely and splashing into the cold ocean waters. The captain tossed him a life preserver with a contemptuous sneer, as André struggled to right himself and barely avoided falling overboard himself.

"Not bad, Yankee. But I do not think you will stop this." Setting down the megaphone at his feet, the pirate captain hoisted to his shoulder a long green tube that André, after a moment, recognized with a shudder of horror.

Holy fuck. That's a rocket-propelled grenade launcher.

"Have a drink, boy," and he fired. The roar deafened André as the grenade struck the starboard stern just at the waterline and exploded into a thousand pieces. Seawater began to rush into the shattered hull.

With a hideous laugh from its captain, the pirate boat sped away.