Saturation: a condition of the atmosphere in which a certain volume of air holds the maximum water vapor it can hold
Upon hearing the phrase, "hitting rock bottom," more than a couple of instances in his own life sprang to Captain Jack Sparrow's unique mind. He continued to lie on the sweat-stained pillow, staring up at the ceiling, acknowledging that at least this one had some semblance of comfort to it. He could hear only the crackling of the fire and the rhythmic breathing of Tia Dalma sleeping next to him. Sleep? He doubted she ever really slept. Inching over, he brushed her arm with the backs of his fingers, shaking his head. The way he knew her, it was like touching a snake.
"'Fraid of bad dreams, Jack?" Coy, wide eyes snapped open at him.
"You did try to kill me the last time."
"But ya came back."
"I'm not coming back anymore."
Laughing, she showed her grimy teeth. Pulling a large bowl on the floor more towards the bed, she leaned over and brought a dripping sponge up to her neck. Moisture covered everything in this bloody place, he thought, even the air. The slime and sweat and vapors rendered everything as supple as her skin. In a way, he supposed it was some sort of karmic justice, knowing how the whores felt after he used them, but at least they were paid for their troubles.
"Ya don't get what ya want when ya come, Jack?"
"Tia Dalma, you never fail to exceed my expectations. In all respects, I might add. Last time, aside from your rather unusual brand of pleasure, was my compass. And the company this time has been the same as always."
"And so what do ya want?" She continued to bathe, her bare back to him.
"I want whatever it is required so I don't need to come back," he said, his grin fading.
"Some-ting amiss?" She turned and smiled at him with flashing eyes.
"Let's just say I don't like the way you taste."
Turning at that, she brought the sponge down to her legs and rubbed her washed arm across his face.
"Not one who like da taste of some-ting pure, I see."
"We must have different definitions of the word 'pure,'" he said, his fingertips lazily climbing up her waist. She swatted at him. "Give me what I want to know."
"Dat don't seem fair."
"Fair?" He frowned. "My dear woman, you have just been pleasured by Captain Jack Sparrow. That's worth this whole shack by my reckoning."
Sighing to herself and mumbling foreign words, he watched her throw on a velvet robe, the elaborate patterns and brocade suggesting another suitor, fool, really, had been to see her with a great deal more money. Perhaps he should have brought more than just himself, he thought. Next time he'd bring a gift. No, this was the last time. She was going to show him and then he could leave. Wiggling into his trousers, he nearly fell off the bed following her back into her main room where she stood over her hearth. Tripping over scattered bones...he preferred to not wonder about those...he peered down into the steamy concoction bubbling in her cauldron.
"Why ya still want dat ting..." she trailed off, but laughed, giving him a stained smile. He considered defending the Pearl's honor, how the number of ships he'd been on in the last ten years fell dramatically short, but instead he ran his tongue over his teeth and fixed his eyes on the cauldron.
An image appeared. Tattered sails, chipped wood, and a few holes in the deck cried out to him. It was still the Pearl, still lovely, but the power he'd always felt behind the helm was replaced by the helpless feeling of watching an animal die. I'll come for you, he told it, wondering if it, if she, could hear him. Hold on and I'll find you. He tore his gaze from it long enough to leap to the table and grab a quill and scrap of paper.
"Ya never cease to surprise," Tia Dalma said.
"They're passing an island out there." Pressing the paper against the uneven bricks on the wall, he weighed it down with his arm, copying the outline of the coast.
"Even cursed da speed still dere."
"Then I will just have to find a ship that can match it for speed, won't I?" The pistol still holstered on his belt seemed to heat up, the bullet in it writhing in anticipation to be let out, to hit its target. No arrow would ever shoot truer, Jack thought. He hurried over to the crooked shelves of books, thick leathery tomes waiting to crumble into dust. The edges of the map he opened up to had curled and whitened, but the little section depicting his domain, his sea, still retained its bright coloring. Memorizing every angle and curve of the line, his eyes scanned until they found the match.
"Port Royal. Ya won't need to travel far."
James Norrington was in Port Royal, Jack swallowed, flashing her a smirk immediately afterwards. Not that he was afraid. Captain Jack Sparrow knew no fear. But one does need to be alive to reap the rewards that follow accomplished revenge.
A ship was the first thing he would need. He and Gibbs could arrange that easily.
"Ya'd never get to it in time."
"How's that?" he asked, puffing up his chest. He strutted back to the bed for his shirt, coat, and effects.
"Dem circling, like sharks."
"Why?"
"Fishing," she chuckled. "Dey dropped one."
"So it's only two medallions to find instead of one. I'm sure they'll get it back." To amuse himself, he contemplated who had dropped Barbossa's precious treasure into the ocean. He had a feeling Pintel and Ragetti had something to do with it. "Then they will take it to Isla de Muerta and then go gallivanting who-knows-where for the last one, so you see, I don't have time to be dawdling." Shrugging his coat up so the lapels covered his chest, he bent down and kissed her on the cheek as a husband might before leaving the house for the day. "It's a grand day when neither of us disappoints."
"Who says one of us didn't? Ya won't know what to do when ya get der, Jack. Lots of ships, but not so lots that can go as fast as ya need."
Just as he was about to head out the door, he cursed, spinning back around and greeting her with a smile.
"But something tells me I can get a clue to which ship I need, am I right?" He knew the answer. Now all that was left was to negotiate the price for the next one.
"I got stew to be makin' now." With her bare hand, she reached into the boiling water and splashed, wiping the image from history. Jack cringed at the action.
"Of course it's not a free clue," he added, strolling back over to her. "But as one with a record of paying you fairly for some trinket that fickle, feminine heart had its eye on, we could come to some sort of understanding, as it were, savvy?" Just don't wish for the moon, he longed to growl out. She grinned at him. Bugger. This would be far from simple.
"A crab."
"A crab!" He clapped his hands together. "Très sophistiqué! Just let me go get one of those traps, a line, and some crab bait, whatever that is, and we shall be breaking out the butter and lemons before nightfall."
"A certain crab. Ya must bring one back dat's got one claw only." She curled her finger at him for emphasis.
"Crippled crab, that rare delicacy," he heard himself saying. Bugger, bugger, bugger. Not even a lover would demand so much. About to go out the door one more time and embark on his new quest, his hands braced either side of the doorway. Damned curiosity, he sighed, knowing it would once again bring him trouble. "For what purpose does our poor crustacean gimp serve?"
"I'll need it da next time you're here."
Again, I do not own these characters or the movies.