James and Alison broke into a run at the same time, each of their strides in sync with the other's.
"This way--I know a shorcut," James said, leading Alison down a street opposite the one they had come from.
Alison said nothing but obeyed. She knew they had no time to waste--they had to find Elizabeth and Weatherby. Beckett probably hadn't been bluffing when he had told them about his men going to take them out.
Sure enough, the small, muddy road they followed brought them to the inn.
"There's no sign of Beckett's men," Alison said, breathing hard from the running. "Do you think we beat them here?"
"Either that or they're already through," James replied, glancing at her with a grim look on his face.
Without another word, the two burst through the door of the inn.
The patrons stared at them.
One glance around the room and Alison could tell that Beckett's men weren't, and probably hadn't, been here--because none of their friends were here, either.
Beside her, James was voicing his confusion.
"Where is everybody?" he asked cluelessly.
"Not here, obviously," Alison said distractedly. "Look, just reload and we can get out of here--"
"Are you askin' about them pirates?" the innkeeper spoke up.
James glanced at Alison before responding. "Yes, but the governor was here too, with his daughter..."
The innkeeper let out a derisive laugh. "Guv'nor? You wouldn't be talkin' 'bout that old man, now would ya?"
"That young miss was sure easy on the eyes, though," a patron chimed in. "Didn't mind having her in here all the time at all."
Alison cast him a withering look before speaking. "Do you know where they are or not?" she asked, letting the edge on her voice reveal her tension.
"Aye, I thought I 'eard 'em sayin' summat 'bout the guv'nor's mansion," the innkeeper replied, balking a little under Alison's glare. "And I says to meself, I says, 'Now why would they go there? That man sure can't be the guv'nor--"
"Thanks, mate," James said, following Alison up the stairs to his room.
Alison was done reloading in seconds, shoving her pistols into her belt after twirling them on her fingers for a bit. From the room across from hers, she heard some muted cursing.
Walking out of her room and into the hall, she could make out James crouching on the ground, scrabbling on the floor in the semi-darkness. By the looks of things, he had in his rush accidentally knocked over his lantern, knocking his extra bullets to the floor.
"James, come on!" Alison said, panicking slightly.
"Just go on without me; I'll catch up," James said distractedly after muttering some more oaths under his breath.
Alison didn't wait another second.
After getting rushed directions to the Swann's mansion from the innkeeper, Alison tore down the streets, her mind racing.
Why the hell are they going there? It's almost as if they knew Beckett's men were coming for them--but how could they know? And why go there--won't Beckett be near there?
As these thoughts raced through her mind, so did her legs through the dark, wet streets of Port Royal.
Finally, she made it to a place she recognized from the movie--the gated driveway of the Swann's home. The gates looked like they had been broken open, and this only increased Alison's sense of anxiety about her friends.
She ran up the rocky road (Haha! Ice cream!) and up to the door, which had been left open.
Alison charged into the dark entrance hall without thinking, a move that she soon came to regret.
As soon as she entered the house, bullets hit the wall behind her. Alison ducked behind a small overturned table and peered over the top of it, eyes squinted slightly against the darkness, trying to make out her target...
There! The flash of his gun firing had given away his position on the balcony above.
Alison drew a pistol and fired, smiling grimly at the yell of pain coming from above.
She ran in a crouch into the next room, hoping silently that whoever had been firing at her hadn't seen where she had gone.
Well, she was lucky in that respect, but unfortunately, there was someone in the room she entered. Fortunately, though, he was busy fighting someone else. So it was really actually quite lucky for her.
But not for long.
As she snuck behind a large dining table, Alison heard a pained yell she recognized.
"Gibbs?" she yelled, alarmed, not thinking about how this would give away her position.
It seemed Gibbs was out of the picture for now--the bad guy, who Alison now saw to be a soldier, was coming at her now.
She scurried out from behind the table and stood up, her back against a shelf of china plates, only to have something crash right beside her.
Alison looked down at the ground, where the remains of what looked like a plate were lying in a dusty heap.
And that's where she got the idea to start a plate fight.
Well, he started it--he was the one to start throwing plates. That was what stopped Gibbs, actually, knocking him into the next room with a faceful of plate.
Anyway, she thrust an elbow into the class casing of the sholf, ignoring the slight pain as a shard of glass sliced through both her coarse shirtsleeve and the skin of her upper arm. She fumbled around the shelves, dodging the occasional plate thrown at her head, until her fingers finally grasped a heavy bowl.
She chucked it at the guy across the table, and it hit him squarely in the chest, making his stumble backwards into the wall behind him--and making him really pissed.
The next thing she knew, he was coming around the wide table with a jagged piece of a large white plate in his hand.
Alison made her way quickly around the other side of the table and out the door Gibbs had been sent through earlier. A quick glance around told her that she was in the kitchen--but a quick glance was all she had time for.
The soldier was advancing, brandishing the sharp plate menacingly, and before Alison could get a grip on one of her pistols, she tripped backwards over a large pot that had fallen to the ground.
She flung a hand to the top of the cabinet next to her, but only managed to get her hand on a large silver platter, pulling it down with her as she fell.
This probably saved her life--if she had managed to get hold of the cabinet and haul herself up, the plate surely would have sunk into her chest.
Plus, the platter made a damn good shield.
The plate hit the platter with a resounding BONG, knocking Alison all the way to the floor. The sound resonating in her ears, she scrambled backwards and stood up quickly as the soldier reared back for another swing at her.
They fought like this for a while, neither of them willing to register how stupid they must look dueling with plates and platters. But, hey, whatever worked--the dude was out of bullets and didn't have a sword, and he wouldn't stop attacking Alison long enough for her to grab a pistol or two. In retrospect, she knew she should have shot the guy before having to deal with swinging a platter around like some kind of deranged maid, but she was too caught up in the moment to dwell on that for now.
Finally, the guy stumbled on some piece of kitchenware or another, Alison didn't notice which; all that mattered was that he fell backwards with a painful-sounding SMACK of his head hitting the floor, allowing Alison a chance to get the hell out of the kitchen of doom.
On to the next room. After a quick survey, she registered that it was empty and was--or had been--a drawing room. Two of the chairs were upturned and the curtains were missing from one of the windows, but there was neither friend nor foe in there.
Alison took a different door out of the drawing room and found herself in the entrance hall again, this time facing the front door, which remained open, a doorway (well, duh) to the still night outside, quite the opposite of the chaos taking place inside the Swann's house.
Alison charged up the stairs, now more determined than ever to find her friends. She had just battled a guy with a platter, goddammit, and that had been exhausting! She'd stick to her pistols anyday.
At the top of the stairs, she stopped in her tracks, as there was another soldier at the end of the hallway, brandishing two very long, very sharp points and grinning.
Alison rolled her eyes, pulled out a pistol, and shot him.
Stepping over his body as he lay moaning and trying to stem the flow of blood coming from his shoulder, Alison entered the first door she saw and saw Gibbs, Cotton (whose parrot was nowhere to be found), and Marty holding their own against three other soldiers, all of them wielding swords.
Alison fired a shot into the ceiling to get some attention. Everyone turned to look at her, and then the pirates cut their enemies while they were still staring with surprise.
"Where are Elizabeth and Weatherby?" Alison asked, striding into the room.
"The cellar," Gibbs said, panting. "Elizabeth wanted to fight, but he wouldn't let her."
"Let's go," Alison said, exiting the room to let the pirates go ahead of her--she assumed they knew where the cellar was.
She assumed right. Gibbs, Marty, and Cotton led her to a door in the back of the house that led to the dark, dank wine cellar by way of a narrow stone stairway.
Alison could just make out Elizabeth sitting in a chair, her back to the three pirates and Alison, looking curiously dejected for someone whose friends were battling for her safety.
"Elizabeth!" she said, frowning. "Where's your father?"
Elizabeth whirled around at the sound of Alison's voice. "Alison, don't it's a--"
"Trap," Marty breathed. Behind him, the cellar door had been shut with an ominous thud. It hadn't even creaked to give our heroes a chance to see what was going on.
Alison drew her pistols immediately, but she knew they would be of no use--it was too dark in the cellar to see a target clearly, unless it was within two feet of your face.
"Ah, Miss Connors! So glad you could join us," a voice said from somewhere in the cellar.
"Beckett," Alison growled, her eyes narrowing.
"Good to see your hearing wasn't damaged by that little gunfight we had in the street earlier," Beckett said ironically.
"Good to see you're still an asshole," Alison said in the same light tone.
Beckett chuckled and moved into the dim light cast by the single lantern hanging over their heads. But he wasn't alone. He had Weatherby handcuffed and close to him. Then she saw the pistol he was holding in his wounded arm, which looked healthy nonetheless, as it was currently pointed steadfastly at Weatherby's stomach.
Alison watched warily as Beckett calmly lit several more lanterns, which lit the room profusely. She knew that if she made a move to escape or to harm Beckett, he would shoot Weatherby. So she decided to just wait this one out and see where it was going.
"I thought everything had gone all wrong when that damn bird tipped Miss Swann off about my plans to kill her and her father," Beckett said, casting a dark look at Cotton as he mentioned the bird. Alison knew he must be talking about the parrot, and she hid a smile as she thought of its parts in the movies.
"But fate, it seems, has finally changed into my favor," Beckett continued, giving Weatherby a jab in the stomach with his pistol.
Alison saw Elizabeth's eyes flash with alarm.
"You could have killed him and Elizabeth before we got here. You obviously have some other motive," Alison said, somehow managing to keep her voice steady.
"Well, of course I do!" Beckett said, laughing. "You already knew that I wanted you dead--although you managed to evade my men...twice...tonight..."
"Impressive, isn't it?" Alison asked, smirking.
Gibbs quickly covered up his little laugh with a cough. Beckett ignored these happenings and continued.
"Anyway, I knew you you wouldn't waste your time trying to find your friends...but when they came here, it threw me completely off guard." He paused in his rambling to allow a grin to slid onto his face. "But look how well it's turned out!"
He began to slowly back up towards the staircase, still gripping Weatherby's arm with his own good one, the pistol still cocked and pointed at his side.
"And now, I'll kill all of you, and there's nothing you can do about it!" Beckett said, a mad gleam coming to his eye.
"You'll still have James to deal with," Alison said quickly. It was a weak point, she knew, but she thought she was about to die--she would take anything she could get.
Her statement actually seemed to hold some sort of sway with Beckett. His face souring, he replied, "In due time, Miss Connors...your precious James will die, too."
There was a thud from the top of the staircase as someone swung it open, making it hit the wall. Beckett, whose back was to the door, didn't know the door was opening and therefore didn't turn until it was too late.
James Norrington shot him in the chest.
There was a collective gasp around the cellar. Beckett was miraculously still standing, and he managed to look down at his chest as if wondering what had just happened. Weatherby stepped away from the doomed man, looking horrified.
When Beckett looked up, his lips were dribbling with blood.
Alison was too distracted by watching the color drain from his face to see him lift his pistol.
BANG.
The dying bastard had somehow managed to shoot James!
And he fell.
Beckett, I mean, not James.
You didn't really think I'd kill off James, did you? Sheesh.
Anyway, Alison gasped in horror and took the stairs two at a time to get to James, who had dropped his pistol and was holding his shoulder, where the bullet had managed to pierce his jacket and graze his skin--not enough to get stuck in his arm, but enough to make it hurt pretty damn badly.
"I'm fine," he said before Alison even said anything.
Alison wasn't sure why she had run up there. Now that he had announced that he was fine, she felt rather ridiculous fawning over him like a sick puppy.
Luckily, the rest of the group was springing into action down in the cellar, so no one really cared about her actions.
Except for James.
Alison didn't notice him gazing at her as she turned sheepishly away.
After their little adventure at the Swann's mansion, our heroes headed back to the inn. Since no one had wanted to touch Beckett's body, they had left it in the cellar, assuming more soldiers would arrive.
Elizabeth and Weatherby didn't seem too devastated about the state of their house, being too preoccupied with Beckett being murdered in front of them. Elizabeth, Alison observed, just seemed relieved that her father hadn't been hurt. The same went the other way for Weatherby.
During the walk back to the inn, in which no one talked very much, not knowing what to say, Alison considered how much different Elizabeth was now as opposed to in the movies. Had her role in Jack's death affected her this much?
Technically, Alison mused, it had--she felt guilty about Will, making her into a virtual puddle when they had made up; her puddly state hadn't been helped by her finding her father locked up in a cell, although she had made up with Will after she had found her father...
Alison was distracted by these thoughts by Norrington, who was walking next to her, stumbling rather badly.
Almost as a reflex, she stopped and grabbed him, being careful of the gunshot wound on his shoulder. She thought his face looked unusually pale, but she couldn't be sure as his hair was hanging in his face.
"James?" she asked tentatively, pushing his chest gently to steady him.
"I'm...fine," he breathed.
Alison noticed that the rest of the group had stopped also. She wanted them to go on...she knew she wouldn't like to be seen in such a weak state.
"You all go ahead, I'll stay with James," she heard herself saying.
"Thanks," he murmured as the group left without much protest.
"No problem," Alison said, smiling faintly up at him.
The gaze between the two lingered for a moment...then a few moments longer. The smile faded slowly from Alison's face as she looked into his eyes. She felt her heart pounding and noticed her gaze was slipping to his lips...
She leaned in, standing up a little straighter to reach, half-closing her eyes...
James turned away. "We should get going," he said, removing his hand from hers and brushing past her.
Alison's hand dropped to her side. She stared into space for a moment, then shook herself and followed James, not wanting him to realize how upset she was.
