Standing at the helm, commanding the enchanted ship, Hook finds himself pleased and relieved that the enchantment has carried over into the Land without Magic. Sailing a ship like the Jolly Roger single-handed would prove difficult, even for him. Killian follows the course he plotted, keeping relatively close to the coastline. Twenty-five nautical miles out would put him in international waters, according to the 'borrowed' atlases from the Dark One. But for once, he's nothing to hide, so he remains within sight of land. It's a new world. He finds himself curious to explore what it offers. Curious in a way he hasn't been since Milah was with him, plotting courses to exotic lands and exploring foreign worlds, taking her wherever she fancied. There were times when they had no course in mind. Killian would have Milah close her eyes and point to a map, then set his course from there. On the wind, he hears Milah's laugh. He recalls the sound clearly from when he followed her chosen destination to muddy swampy marshes in some distant land whose name he no longer recalls. She thought she was going to reach a tropical paradise. In his mind's eye, he sees the way her eyes once lit up and sparkled at the prospect of adventure. He sees the way she glowed in the sunlight, her long dark curls flying in the breeze like a flag. Killian wonders what she would have made of this world. He hopes she would have been as intrigued as he finds himself. His eyes trace the deck, where Milah used to pace excitedly every time he said they'd make landfall soon in some unfamiliar place. Killian feels a nostalgic smile curve his lips until it slides off his face. The warmth of her memory turns to ice in his veins as his eyes trace that spot on the deck. Where she died.
Hook jerks his head and scowls out at the sea to focus on his course, following the coastline south. Focusing on the path forward before the grief and anger threaten to drown him. This isn't the Enchanted Forest. This isn't Neverland. He hasn't navigated these waters often enough to do it blindfolded. In fact, he's never been in these waters before. Reading the wind, the tide, the waves and the sky remains a skill that transfers to any seas, he's found. They're constantly changing, but the ability to decipher what they impart remains. So Hook grits his jaw and focuses on sailing these unknown waters of the north Atlantic, heading south for the Gulf of Mexico. The winds are in his favor. The sky above him is crystalline. The waves rocking beneath his feet are calm and steady. The enchantments on the Jolly hold over in this world, so he makes excellent time, reaching Beaumont in a matter of a day.
Hook docks his ship discreetly, gets everything squared away with the harbormaster, then sets off to find passage north to Blanchard. He takes his satchel with some of the maps and the binder, then pockets several handfuls of coins and jewels in his coat before he departs. He considers his sword, then thinks better of it, leaving it in his cabin and concealing his other weapons. It's unclear how the sight of his weapons will be received by natives of this land. Ports in this land are considerably larger than he's accustomed to. Ships in this land seem to be made of metal and somehow move without the use of sails. He's intrigued. He wants to know what they utilize, but he's no time. The strange metal carriages that seem to be conducted by nothing Hook can see are also abundant here. "A very strange world indeed," he whispers to himself. These metal horseless carriages seem to be the best means of conveyance. Now he must set about procuring one of them.
In one of these metal carriages, he spots a fetching young woman. Hook quickly hatches a plan. Oozing his usual charm, he swaggers up to her. "Hello love." Hook grins at the woman, looking at her through his eyelashes. Young and deliciously curved in all the right places, with sun-kissed skin, auburn hair and dark eyes. She smiles back, curling a dark lock around her finger absently. "I was wondering if you might be willing to assist me. If you were, I'd make it worth your while." Hook sways in, thumbing his belt buckle.
"And what do you need help with, blue eyes?" The woman asks with a giggle.
"I was hoping you may be able to ferry me somewhere," Hook gestures to her carriage.
The woman's expression changes slightly, a bit surprised at the request. But she blinks and smiles, still curling her lock around her finger. "Where to, blue eyes? My place, so I can see what's hidin' beneath all that leather?" Her voice, sultry and smooth, has a pleasant twang to it. She ogles him up and down with a familiar, lustful look in her eyes. He grins for a moment and considers agreeing. But this is the path to his revenge. Emma Swan, the Savior, is the key to his revenge. From that purpose, he won't be deterred.
"Blanchard, Oklahoma," he answers plainly, realizing it is a rather substantial favor to solicit from a stranger, most of the flirtation gone from his voice.
The woman balks for a moment. She raises an eyebrow. The corner of her mouth quirks up in bemusement. "You fuckin' serious?" she asks with a slightly disbelieving chuckle. All traces of flirtation are gone from the woman. Hook sighs but nods. He'd hoped flirtation would secure him transport, but gold and jewels should suffice.
"I did say I'd make it worth your while," he states as he holds out a small handful of jewels. Her dark eyes go wide and her jaw goes slack. She rocks a step back, glancing between the jewels in his hand and his face.
"Those real?"
He grins. "As real as I am, darling."
"Doesn't answer my question, 'cuz you seem fuckin' unreal, blue eyes," she mutters with another disbelieving chuckle and a roll of her eyes. Hook sways in with a salacious smirk, watching her from underneath his lashes.
"I'm more than willing to prove just how real I am, darling."
She narrows her eyes, furrows her brow, and considers for a moment. She glares at something over Hook's shoulder that he doesn't care to turn and take a look at himself. He maintains his focus on her, willing her to say yes. After a few beats, the woman shrugs and tosses her head to the side, indicating he should go around. "Eh, what the hell? Get in, blue eyes." He enters the carriage with utmost caution, and based on the laughter the woman barely restrains, the wariness reflects in his expression. "Never seen a car before?"
"Can't say as I have, love." She shakes her head, grinning in bemusement, quite possibly thinking he's joking. It's a notion he won't disabuse her of, lest she discover the true extent of his ignorance. Killian tries to tamp down his curiosity at the flickering lights, buttons and levers in front of the woman, at his surroundings and how this 'car' operates. The solitary thing that appears remotely familiar to him is the steering wheel in front of the woman. Everything else, he hasn't a clue how it operates, but gods above, does he want to know.
"So," she starts, "we've got about seven and a half hours of drivin' ahead of us. And that's if traffic is on our side, fingers crossed. Consider yourself lucky that I used to have family in the area, so I know the way like the back of my hand." Convenient, Hook thinks to himself. Though the odd way she spits out the word family gives him slight pause and makes him wonder. He tamps down the curiosity as to the woman's familial plight, however. It's no concern of his, he reasons. "Be kinda boring if we don't talk a little. Tell me, what's in Blanchard for you, blue eyes?"
Hook considers how to word his response carefully. It wouldn't do to say 'I'm off to fetch a young girl and deliver her to fulfill her destiny so that I may take the revenge I've waited centuries for without the pesky detail of my foe not remembering who I am'. He may be unfamiliar with this land, but there is no land in which that would be a satisfactory answer. Kidnapping a girl to make her an accessory to premeditated murder wouldn't represent an acceptable answer in any land. So he answers simply after a few moments, keeping it minimal but truthful. "I'm trying to bring a girl back to her family."
"Oh, bless your heart." The woman looks over, her eyes gentle and sparkling, her voice and smile tender. "You're a good man." She turns back to the road in front of her so she misses the involuntary facial contortion Hook can't stifle at the words. Because that statement could not be any further from the truth. "Is she, I mean, do you know what happened? How they got separated, I mean? It's none of my business if you don't want to share, but do you?"
"Unfortunately, no, I don't know the particulars of the separation. Simply that it's been a curse for all of them." Hook answers. He'll let the woman draw her own conclusions about him. If she believes he is an honorable man, erroneous assumption that it is, she'll be more inclined to assist him. Manipulative as it is, he's used this tactic before and suffers no particular qualms about employing it again. "Enough about me, love. What about you? If I may, seven and a half hours out of your way for a complete stranger. I don't mean to sound unappreciative, but it does sound a bit…"
"Crazy?" she supplies with a grin over at him before focusing back on the road before her. He nods and she lets out a gentle laugh. "Well, the horoscope said this mornin' that if someone asks you for help, say yes. Doesn't matter how big or small. Do that, and you'll put good into the universe, and some of that good will come back to you. And if I help you find that girl, and you help her reunite with her family…" Her voice sounds distant and dreamy as she trails off.
"Well, I daresay I'm fortunate for this horoscope, then." He's willing to wager she maintains her own reasons for aiding him. Given the fact that she is assisting him, if she wishes to keep them to herself, that's her prerogative. She laughs with him. It's buoyant, the kind of surface level peace and distraction he would find with women in taverns at times over the last three centuries. It's effortless to slip into the role and flirt. That's what he does as his surroundings pass in a green and gray blur. They discuss idle chatter just to pass the time as the world outside continues to blur with the speed they're moving. Hook smiles, flirts, and charms as the woman, Krystal he learns is her name, responds in kind.
"So, blue eyes, what's with the whole pirate get-up?" She waves her hand up and down, gesturing to the leather, the kohl, the jewelry, the hook. He simply chuckles. And acknowledges the fact that he possibly should have adopted a less conspicuous outfit. Forgone some of the leather, left some of the jewels, traded the hook for the prosthetic hand back in his cabin. Possibly should have either purchased or stolen some clothes from a shop, either back in Storybrooke or in Beaumont.
"What can I say, love? Women seem to love a man in leather."
She barks out a laugh at that. "It definitely works for you." She winks over at him, then turns her focus back to the road ahead of them. "I'm serious, though. Are you, like, an actor or somethin'?"
It's a plausible explanation, and he latches onto it quickly, given that he lacks a more satisfactory explanation for his appearance and behavior. Explaining he's a centuries-old pirate wouldn't do at all. "Aye," he answers simply with a wink. She rolls her eyes with a disbelieving chuckle.
Maybe an hour into their journey, Krystal presses one of the buttons on the array of them that sits between her and Hook. Music begins emanating from some unseen source. Hook tenses, brow furrowed, eyes darting around on alert, hand instantly reaching for a weapon. Krystal doesn't seem to notice, and the music continues, filling the air when the conversation between them lulls. After a song or two, Hook relaxes. He still doesn't altogether understand how the music is coming from the small box that Krystal pushed, or how he can feel the vibrations against the seat, but he chooses to choke back his questions to not further betray his ignorance. A native of this world would accept these things, and so Hook pretends he does as well. It's only a few more hours of their surroundings passing in a blur of green and gray. They make a few stops for what Krystal calls 'gas' for the car before they arrive on a broad street lined with brick storefronts. "Welcome to Blanchard, blue eyes."
He offers a genial smile and scoops out more than a handful of gold coins and jewels and tucks them into her hand. "Seriously," she asks without a hint of joking or flirtation in her voice, "are these real?"
"Indeed," he answers, just as seriously. "They are the only payment I can provide, as I lack currency from this land. But I do hope you'll accept them and my gratitude, milady." Hook gives a bow as he exits Krystal's car. "I do thank you ever so much for your assistance, love." She shrugs.
"Hey, good luck with your girl. I hope things go well there."
"As do I." He nods with a smile and another bow as she slowly drives away. Hook rechecks the binder, determining an address on the police report. 813 S. Lincoln Ave. He isn't sure where that is, so he selects a direction and starts walking. The walk feels pleasant on his stiff legs after so long in the car. The material he's walking on feels far harder than he's accustomed to, however. Sandy beaches and dirt paths in the forests provide some give beneath his feet. This foreign stone, however, does not. He wonders at the marvel. Their pathways are paved with several large, square stones, each so similar in consistency.
Killian catches himself gawking and drawing attention in doing so. He jerks his head with a slight scowl at his behavior, the curiosity of an unknown land having got the better of him momentarily. If it weren't for his mission to retrieve the Savior, he would pause for a moment to take it in. After a few hours of walking, with the sun beginning to dip below the horizon, he finally sights it. Lincoln Ave, written in white letters on a green metal sign. He turns left, noting the numbers ascending in order from 350, and he lets out a relieved breath. Finally, he feels he's close and the anticipation begins humming in his veins once again.
In the back of his mind, he thinks he should carefully consider what to disclose to the Swan girl when he sees her. Hook has no doubt that she won't believe him if he begins to ramble about fairy tales. What he knows of this land, the history of the Enchanted Forest has been butchered and told as children's stories here. Magic exists purely in fantasy. She likely won't be inclined to follow him to Maine. What should he divulge to her? About how her parents are cursed? Though the fact that they won't recognize who she is until she fulfills her destiny seems almost cruel to the lass. Perhaps that could provide incentive to the young Savior. Then again, if the police report is any indication, it likely won't matter what he tells her so long as he provides an escape to her. Hell, she'll probably be grateful to him for it.
This is his last thought as he approaches a nondescript brick house with 813 on the blue front door and a narrow concrete porch. Parked along the road outside are four of the metal carriages. Cars, he corrects himself. Feeling himself growing slightly anxious, he raps on the door with his hook and peers through the narrow window. There doesn't appear to be any sign of a young girl in the house. Hook begins to think he may have mistaken the address when a man answers the door. Unshaved, balding, a scowl on his face, wearing a grimy white sleeveless shirt and ripped, stained trousers. Hook can smell the alcohol and body odor rolling off of this man from several feet away. His head is about level with Hook's shoulder, and he has a prominent gut underneath the shirt. The man retains a cautious grip on the door and leans against the frame, trying to conceal the room beyond. Behind the man, Hook can hear the yells of at least three different men.
"Who the hell are you?" The man barks out. "Why the hell are you dressed like that?"
Hook completely ignores the second question and adopts the sort of professionalism that he hasn't since his days in the navy. One that supersedes the leather. "My name is Mr. Jones. I'm looking for a Mr. Nelson and am inquiring about a Miss Emma Swan." The man's eyes go wide for a moment, then narrow again in a glare.
"What the hell are you asking about that little skank for?"
"I'm a party interested in Miss Swan's future. I understand she's in your care." The man scoffs audibly at that. Hook continues without acknowledging his outburst. "It is my understanding that this is her last known place of residence. Is she here?"
"You her birth father or somethin'?" The man sneers up and down while completely failing to answer the straightforward question meant to ascertain the girl's whereabouts, unintentionally providing an answer. "Got some God damn nerve, showin' up fourteen years after you abandon a baby on the side o' the highway like trash. Believe me, kid wants nothin' to fuckin' do with you." Nelson's answer almost gains a small shred of Hook's respect, if not for everything else he's said and done prior to it.
"That would be true if I were, in fact, her father. However, I am not. I'm simply a party interested in Miss Swan's future. Now, I'm given to understand this was her last known place of residence. I understand her removal from this," he gestures to the house behind him and stresses the word with distaste, "home was pending a new placement for her. So, where is she?"
The man cocks his head to the side, then fully steps out onto the porch, shutting the door behind him. He glares at Hook. "Why in the hell would I tell you where that little slut is? You ain't from social services, you just said you ain't family lookin' for her, and you sure as hell ain't a cop. No way in hell they found a place that'll take that little skank. And I don't have to tell you jack shit." Nelson answers with a sneer.
"Mr. Nelson, if you're so concerned about finding Miss Swan a new place to live, I'm offering to take her off your hands. I'm delighted to do so if you simply inform me where she is." Hook is struggling to maintain whatever air of professionalism he began this interrogation with.
"And collect the paycheck with her? Yeah, go fuck yourself."
"Mr. Nelson, do you know where Emma Swan is or not?"
He scoffs. "I ain't got a fuckin' clue where the little skank ran off to. Hope the little slut dies out there, wherever the hell she fucked off to." The bastard scoffs and sneers again. "A party int'rested in her future?" he mocks. "Go fuck yourself. That little skank doesn't have a fuckin' future." The insults to Emma Swan are starting to bother something in his gut. Not that he's looking to defend the girl's honor, but there's something about it that's grating on him. There's something specific about the way he's referring to her that doesn't sit right.
"Mr. Nelson, is there a reason you've repeatedly referred to a nearly fourteen-year-old girl as both a skank and a slut?" The words may not be exactly the same as his land, but the intent is abundantly clear. Referring to a child as such doesn't sit right. They don't strike him as simple epithets, nor as simple insults. Their use seems almost deliberate. Nelson possesses the good sense not to answer, which is answer enough on its own. Hook wants so badly to punch the shit-eating sneer off the bastard's face, though it would impede his interrogation if the man could no longer speak. "Now, Mr. Nelson, I am simply a party interested in the girl's future. Tell me, is she here on the premises or shall I push past you and search for myself?" Hook grits through his teeth.
"Nah, little bitch ran off 'bout a week or so ago. Slut took my Firebird with her."
"Excuse me?"
"You fuckin' deaf or something?" The man barks back. Hook's patience has been tried enough with this scum. As a result, he brandishes his hook. He seizes the man by the collar and secures the point of his hook against the man's throat as it bobs in fear. Hook slams him against the brick and gets in his face to continue the questioning.
"I'm going to ask you one time and you're going to answer me, without the insults. Do you understand me, you disgusting bilge rat?" Hook snarls out through grit teeth, enunciating every syllable clearly. The white-knuckled fist gripping Nelson's shirt is shaking in his anger. Nelson bobs his head frantically. "Good. Now, Miss Swan, what happened to her?"
"She took my Firebird." Hook strikes his head against the wall again so he sputters out, "My car! 'Bout a week or so ago. Stole the car and some cash and took off. I don't know where the hell the kid is now."
"And Miss Swan just did this, completely unprompted?" The bastard remains silent. "Answer me!" Hook barks out the order. The point of his hook digs into the scumbag's throat enough that a bead of blood begins to form on his skin.
"The little slut-" Hook drives his hook through Nelson's shoulder. The cowardly scumbag releases a choked whimper. Hook simply raises his eyebrows in warning and presses his hook back against Nelson's throat as prompting. Blood oozes quickly from the wound, running down Nelson's chest and staining the front of his grimy shirt. "She was giving payment for staying here. Turns out she didn't like it, just the way it is." Hook's brow furrows in confusion. Payment? As far as Hook understood, these 'foster parents' were paid by the state to accept in children who would otherwise be without homes. Nelson himself had mentioned something about a paycheck being collected on Miss Swan's behalf. What further payment could be collected? It takes a moment, but the conclusion leaves a leaden weight in his gut and a cold feeling in his veins. The way he spits it, the specific insults directed at the Swan girl. This sick fucking bastard. Hook tastes bile rising in the back of his throat. He almost wants to deny it. Not out of interest of this bastard being anything less than the scum of the earth, but not wanting Emma Swan to have suffered that.
"Payment of what kind?" Hook snarls, voice barely above a whisper.
"You know what kind. Something tells me you're lookin' for the same." Killian balks at the accusation. Pirate he may be, but there are lines even he won't cross. "Interested in her future. Yeah, I'm sure you're just waiting for the little bitch to turn eighteen, be legal." Hook slams Nelson's head against the bricks again, then stabs his hook into his shoulder. Deep, just a few inches to the right of the first blow, and twists. Nelson lets out another choked gasp in pain, but sneers again as the hook returns to his throat. There's a sickening wet sound of tearing flesh as Hook rips the hook from the now gushing wound. Hot blood flows over the fist clenched in Nelson's shirt. A small red puddle begins growing at their feet.
"Not like I was even her first," Nelson spits out. "Little M'n'M was sweet as candy. Some buddies of mine wanted a taste." The repulsive fucker lets out a weak, breathless chuckle. The laugh of a man with no shame, no regrets, and nothing left to lose. Hook feels sick. His blood-soaked hand shakes with his rage. "I took what she owed me, for living under my roof, eating my food, for taking her in when no one else would. A problem-child like her, a runaway, flight risk, with a laundry list of fuckin' issues! That fuckin' juvenile delinquent, no one would take her on. No one wanted her. I was the only one who would take her in. The little slut owed me, and she paid what she owed. Then last week, I take it from her, she knocks me out cold. Takes my cash and my car, fucks off to God-knows-where." Hook drives his hook deep into the man's shoulder again, just a few inches to the left of his original injury. The mangled skin of the bastard's shoulder is now covered in blood. Three wounds gushing lifeblood. It's then that Hook notices the black eye and bruised jaw. Good for her, he thinks, with a not insignificant amount of pride in the Swan girl.
"And where is Miss Swan now?" he hisses out.
"Hell if I fuckin' know, and damned if I fuckin' care." Nelson answers, barely above a whisper in his pain. He attempts to curl inward, to protect himself from any further injury. Hook wraps his blood-slick fingers around the bastard's throat and squeezes just right as he slams Nelson's head back against the wall. "You fuckin' deaf or something? Like I just fuckin' said, you moron, she fucked off to God only knows where." He chokes out desperately.
Fist clenched once again in the collar of the bastard's shirt, hook driving into the flesh just below his jawline, Hook snarls. "You'd better fucking provide me with an answer, right the hell now, or I suggest you pick a god and start praying for atonement. Then again, there's not much atonement for scum like you." The man quakes and nods frantically.
"The GPS on the Firebird, it's pinging from way up north. Warroad, Minnesota. Apparently the little bitch crashed the damn thing in a lake," he scrambles to get out on his shallow breaths, hands out placating. Hook doesn't know what any of that means, but it tells him one thing. He has a new location. Wherever the hell Warroad, Minnesota is. "Just don't kill me, man. Here," he says, reaching into his pocket and removing a leather folded wallet. "All the money I have. Take it, just don't kill me."
Hook accepts the wallet with a glare. Obtaining currency from this land would be a benefit. He takes a step back, releasing the scum to collapse, shaking, in a pile on the ground. Nelson looks almost relieved, as if the wallet is enough to purchase his life, enough to buy Hook's mercy. He curls up in a ball, shaking in pain, lying in a growing puddle of his own blood. "You pathetic bastard." Hook knows the anger burning in his veins and the disgust roiling in his gut will only be sated by blood. Consequently, he grabs the bastard by the collar of his shirt and punctures his carotid artery with his hook. He twists his hook, then rips it out with a sickening squelch that's music to his ears. Hot blood splatters across Hook's face with the move. Then Hook throws him down where he collapses on the porch, blood spurting like a fountain from his neck. Hook watches the blood spurt, so dark it's almost black, pumping away the bastard's life. As the blood flow starts to weaken, Hook turns and stalks away, leaving the man to take his final breaths alone.
Several paces away, he pauses on an impulse. There were men inside that house, ones that may have been able to provide medical attention to save the scumbag. Some odd feeling inside of Hook makes him turn around and stalk back. He sees Nelson slumped and covered in his own blood. A feral grin stretches across Hook's face at the sight. None too carefully, he grips the bastard's wrist, then beneath his jaw, then his chest. Searching for a pulse that he knows he won't find there. Feeling far more satisfied, Hook leaves the corpse and stalks down the quiet street once again. His satisfaction lasts only moments before rage returns, overwhelming force and now without a target.
Glaring at everything he passes, which this late isn't much, he cleans the scumbag's blood off his hook and paces down the street. Hook considers his anger. It should have been at the fact that he's still not found the Savior. The lass wasn't where he thought she would be. The curse won't break without her, and he doesn't have her to bring to Storybrooke. Instead, all he secured is yet another location, yet another place across this distant land to travel to retrieve her. His anger should be with this new obstacle to his revenge. He should be enraged that he still remains that step away from his vengeance. But that wasn't the case, was it? Hook found himself furious on the Swan girl's behalf. He knows himself. As prone to temper as he is, he hasn't been that furious with anyone since the Crocodile killed Milah. Before then, with the king whose lies had cost Liam his life. He was sickened and outraged that the scumbag would molest her and almost seem proud of the fact. Hell, Nelson was practically boasting about it. Hook has no reason to care for the Swan girl. Hell, the Savior is a pawn and a means to an end to him. He's no reason to care about her safety or well-being. But he did. There had been times he'd found himself tamping down sympathy for the girl, but this time, he couldn't. He should feel nothing for this girl. She means nothing more to him than a stepping-stone in his plan for revenge against the Crocodile. But Hook knows, he knows himself well, and he wouldn't kill for someone who means nothing to him.
"It may appear I was wrong again, Savior." This girl is becoming dangerous to him, and he's never even met her. Hook stalks down the unfamiliar streets, passed by the cars on their way to and fro going about their own lives. Illuminated by the strangely glowing lampposts, he begins to gather a rein on his temper once again. About an hour later, when he feels he has it well in hand, he enters a tavern. He offers a half-hearted smile to the barkeep and requests a glass and a bottle of his finest rum. The lights are muted, the tavern is mostly empty and Hook occupies a stool at the bar with a sigh.
"Rough day?" The barkeep asks as he sets down both requested items.
"You don't know the half of it, mate," Hook answers with a sigh, pouring himself a drink and downing it in one go. The rum isn't as strong as he's accustomed to, not by a long shot, but it is far from unpleasant. For a moment, he scowls at the caricature of a pirate on the bottle. He downs another drink, and another, before he's mellowed enough to reach into his satchel. He begins searching through the maps from the Dark One in the low lights of the tavern as the barkeep turns to attend to other duties. Warroad, Minnesota. He furrows his brow as he looks the maps over. He finally identifies it, nearly at the border with Canada.
"Swan, you've got to be bloody joking," he groans out, head rocking back. Getting here from Beaumont had been hard enough. Finding a lovely woman willing to provide him passage was a stroke of luck he doubts he'll find twice. How the hell he's going to reach Warroad is beyond him. Once he's there, how the hell he's going to find the Savior–a girl who clearly won't want to be found–presents another problem entirely. He never anticipated chasing the Savior to all parts of the bloody country when he tried pre-empting the curse breaking. For some reason, he never anticipated finding the Savior being the hard part, especially not with the Dark One's research on her location. Returning to Beaumont to retrieve his ship, he figures, is a bridge he'll cross when he gets there. Perhaps the Swan girl, knowing this land, will know some way.
"Mate," the barkeep looks up, eyebrows raised expectantly. "Could you tell me any way to reach northern Minnesota from here? All but on the Canadian border, a town called Warroad," he asks the barkeep. Hook can hear quite clearly how exhausted he sounds. He can't precisely recall the last time he slept. Must have been before the beanstalk. The man's eyes widen in surprise. He frowns slightly, eyes darting and slowly nodding as he thinks for a moment before answering.
"Assuming you don't have a car?" Hook nods in answer to the question. "Well, there's a bus station right down the block. It might get you most of the way, fairly cheap." Hook thanks the young barkeep with a tired grin. He pays for his drinks with a few pieces of the green paper this land seems to consider currency, but he considers worthless. On that positive note, he leaves the tavern for the bus station the barkeep informed him of.
It's simple enough to purchase a ticket. It seems, to his favor, a bus route runs, conveniently for him, from Warroad all the way to New Orleans and back again. It seems Blanchard is, again luckily for him, a stop on that route. With a tired sigh, he gets on the bus and leans his head back against the seat. He allows his mind to wander as the surroundings pass in a darkened blur outside the window. Seventeen hours, not including stops or traffic, to get to Warroad.
What happens if he reaches this town, only to not find her again? The stolen car is located here in Warroad, according to the sniveling rapist, but what if Emma ditched it? How the bloody hell will he find her then? What could he do? 'Call' the Dark One, on the speaking contraptions he barely understands, to get a location on the Swan girl? It's not like he knows how to contact Smee and ask for his assistance on gathering the Dark One's new reconnaissance on the young, wayward Savior. Wander around aimlessly until he stumbles across another clue? What would Swan do? Continue onward to cross the border and take her chances in another country? Seek shelter in place? Switch vessels to throw anyone off her trail and continue onward in a different direction? He doesn't know. It seems the Swan girl is a survivor. Given what little he knows of her, and the wealth of information he has yet to read about her, she's had to be. What would a survivor do? Hook can scarcely imagine what he'd do in this situation.
Is he going to continue chasing this Swan girl all over this world, if that's what it takes? He promised himself he'd drag her to her destiny kicking and screaming if need be. But is he actually prepared to pursue her all over the bloody world to do so? He's barely begun and already finds it tiring. If he is to continue on chasing the Savior all over creation, he'll have to find a way to return to his ship. He left the Jolly Roger for days, no one on board, in a foreign port. It's a feeling that doesn't sit right with him. From his ship, is he prepared to chase this girl indefinitely? Could he really just step back and allow destiny to take its toll in another fourteen years or so, allowing the curse to break in due time? After all, he's waited centuries. What's another fourteen years when he's already in this world?
No! He refuses to wait that long. Gods above only know if she'd survive long enough to break the curse if he did step back. Gods above only know what would happen if he were to allow her destiny to run its course in due time. He's waited centuries, that's long enough. He's not waiting any longer than he has to. Besides, in all likelihood, the twenty-eight years prediction was merely the Dark One spewing the prophecy most beneficial to him. Hook refuses to observe the Dark One's timeline, refuses to obey his rules. He'll bring the Savior early, take the time to prepare away from his foe.
His mind switches to a separate track. Knocked him out cold, she did. Hard enough that the scumbag was still black and blue more than a week later. Knocked him out, then robbed him blind. The name Firebird doesn't mean anything to him, but the identification of the car by name seems to indicate its status. Seemingly, a luxurious car, or at least an expensive one. And she stole it from him, drove it several states away. Once again, he feels the same stirrings of pride for this girl. One day, this princess might just make a hell of a pirate, he thinks to himself.
He finds himself succumbing to his need for rest and comes in and out in brief cat naps. His fellow passengers are astute enough to leave him undisturbed. And with the afternoon sun, the surroundings passing in a green and blue blur, the bus stops for its final stop in Warroad. Hook and the remaining passengers depart. He takes into consideration what the scumbag Nelson mentioned, something about Emma wrecking the damn car in a lake.
Hook takes in his surroundings. Surrounded by water. "How bloody helpful," he mutters dryly to himself and sets off. Emma came from Blanchard, just as he did. Meaning the car would have had to have followed the same route. Therefore, it should be in one of the bodies of water around him right now. He paces along the road, taking note of the various impressions in the mud along the banks. There! He spots tracks tearing into the mud after a few moments of searching. The reeds and grass are knocked aside and torn asunder. Tire tracks tore deep, uneven gouges heading straight into the water. No sign of the car itself, but the tracks lead into the water. It seems someone wrecked a car in the lake, recently. Limping footprints move away from the water, towards a wooded trail. Left the scene of the crash injured to seek shelter. He follows the footprints in the mud to the buildings a few miles down the road. At irregular intervals, there is an impression in the mud, a gouge like the person slid or an imprint of a body fallen on the muck. Hook almost sighs at just how easy a trail it is for him to follow. A blind man could follow this girl. He supposes that her primary concern wasn't with covering her tracks, though, rather it was with getting away. Hook follows her stumbling trail through the woods to a cluster of small cottages by the lakeside as the sun begins to dip below the treeline.
There are five buildings at the end of the trail, each with substantial space between them. All appear to be unoccupied at first distant glance. Hook tries the closest to himself, jimmies the lock and takes a look around. The tidy, rustic cottage has a certain staleness in the air. A light coating of dust covers the counters and sheet-covered furniture like fresh fallen snow. Undisturbed. No one's been here for some time. Each room he inspects appears the same. He sighs, vacates the house and tries the next one in line to similar results. Lavishly decorated, seeming to be some wealthy family's second home they're no longer occupying for the autumn months. Each room appears much the same, even down to the same matching wood theme. However, there is the same even coating of dust and the same staleness in the air that suggests it's laid unoccupied for some time. Hook sighs, then exits the house, moving on to the next one.
As he reaches for the doorknob, he knows this one is different. The knob turns on its own, the door creaking slightly ajar. Paint by the lock is slightly scratched, almost as if she was fumbling while forcing the lock. A small partial muddy footprint stands out against the white stone porch. Hook grins, knowing he's found her. Night has fallen outside. He steps inside quietly, carefully, and spots a white-blond head of curls, almost silver in the moonlight, and long limbs curled up on a couch. His following footstep creaks a floorboard and the girl jerks awake, jumping instantly to her feet, immediately on alert. Hook cringes slightly at the harsh noise, deafening in the silence. Eyes like a startled fawn dart around the room as the Swan girl reaches to the mantle for a weapon. She comes up with a candle holder and holds the metal instrument like a club. Keen instincts, Hook notes. She perceived a threat and immediately responded in kind. Not that it's any place for a young girl, or anyone for that matter, but the lass would be well-served in Neverland with instincts like those. All off of a simple creak in the floorboards.
"Emma? Emma Swan?" Hook asks gently, making no movement.
"I don't care who the hell you are, I'm not going back." She answers in the dark, voice hard, eyes glaring. She has her weapon at the ready to strike at a moment's notice. He's had crewmen with slower response times than this young lass. He's had crewmen who took longer in the transition between sleep and wakefulness, who couldn't perform the instant jump from fast asleep to combat-ready. They didn't live very long, and he revisits his thoughts from earlier in the day. Miss Swan would make a hell of a pirate. Hook almost smiles with pride at the defiance in the girl's stance. Long legs bent slightly at the knee, ready to bolt at a moment's notice. Shoulders back, chin held high, long fingers wrapped around the metal candlestick holder as a weapon. "I'm not going back to the system. I'm sure as hell not going back to Nelson. So if that's your plan, you're wasting your time. I'm not going back there." She spits out.
He can't tamp down the frankly stupid glow of pride in his chest at the Swan girl's defiance. A tough young lass, she is. As a result, he's grinning as he replies to her statement. "Good thing I've no intention of returning you to the system, love. We've a different destination ahead of us." Killian may derive an absurd amount of pride from her response to a perceived threat, but that doesn't mean he isn't aware of one key fact. He will accomplish far more, and with much less difficulty, if she ceases to see him as a threat.
"Who are you?" she whispers back, voice sounding rough from sleep and disuse, though less hard and a bit more uncertain than she's been. He notices she's trying so hard to conceal the fact that she's favoring her right leg, and trying even harder to cover up her fear and pain. What little of her pale skin he can see is marked with dark bruises and cuts. Her clothes are torn and covered in patches of mud, and what appears to be dried blood.
"My name is Killian Jones, love. Are you Emma Swan?" He keeps his voice gentle in the quiet of the night. Killian places his hand where the lass can see it. Out, open, neither reaching for a weapon nor to seize her. He's as non-threatening as he can be. He makes no effort to hide his hook, but places no other emphasis on it, holding it matter-of-factly at his side. In the pale moonlight filtering through the window, as Emma rocks back a step, Killian can see her eyes more clearly. Green and gray, they remind him of stormy seas. She's clearly assessing him, searching gaze scanning his face and form. Gauging a threat level, determining how much danger she's in, and most likely considering her own speed against his. There's also a look in her eyes, one he knows all too well. The look you get when you've been left alone, abandoned. A look he recognizes from the Lost Boys in Neverland. A look he used to recognize from the mirror. It seems no matter what land they hail from, an orphan's an orphan.
"Yeah, I'm Emma Swan," she answers. Her eyes are narrowed into distrustful slits, and she has yet to set down her weapon. Her feet shift, angling around for an escape. Seems he's blocking the only exit. Good thing, too, as he doesn't plan on chasing this girl any further. He enjoys a challenge, but chasing the girl across the bloody country has been bloody exhausting. The makeshift weapon goes from hand to hand as she shoulders a gray bag on her back. She tilts her head as she studies him. "You're not a cop. You're not from social services. So who are you, Jones?" The girl's tone almost dares him to lie to her. Hook almost wonders how she came to the same, albeit correct, conclusion as Nelson that he's not the authorities. Perhaps it's what Krystal deemed the 'pirate get-up'. "How did you find me? What do you want with me?" There's a harsh edge to the girl's voice, concealing the fear he can see in her shaking white-knuckled grip on the weapon. He takes a measured step closer, hand in front of him. She darts several steps back quickly, weapon raised. He's reminded of a wounded animal.
Killian sighs. He reminds himself that the lass still perceives him as a threat, and has very little reason to do otherwise. He thinks again that he should have more carefully considered answers, because of course she has questions. The truth, he figures, he'll have time to explain to her on the way to Beaumont. It's not as if it's not an obscenely lengthy journey ahead of them. "I've been looking for you. And Emma, I mean to bring you with me, away from here. As I said, I've a different destination in mind. You're not going back to the system. You're coming with me." She rocks back a step, uncertain, weapon still at the ready between them. But Killian smiles, a genuine smile this time, trying his best to engender whatever trust is necessary to persuade the girl to accompany him willingly.
Emma's narrowed eyes continue scrutinizing him warily as he continues. "As to where we are going and why, and what I want with you, the truth is a bit much to explain just now." She raises an eyebrow at that and he almost chuckles at her skepticism. "To summarize, there is a town in Maine that we both have business in. I require your assistance in seeing to that business. But I will do my best to explain everything properly on the way there. Just know I intend to bring you to your destiny. I intend to bring you to your family." He manages to head off the disbelieving scoff at the idea of destiny with the promise of her family. Just as he suspected. If he hadn't had her attention before, he definitely has it now. Perhaps it's a touch cruel for him to manipulate her with her desire for her family, but it's not as if it's a lie. When she breaks the curse, her parents will remember her and she'll have her family. He's bringing her back to do so.
Killian holds her gaze as she searches his face. For answers, for the truth, he's not sure what exactly she's looking for but she seems to detect it as her stance relaxes slightly. Emma lowers her weapon, still regarding him warily, but he knows he has her attention and some limited measure of trust. It's not implicit trust by any means, but she believes he's conveying the truth and it's enough for now. Killian smiles at the progress and gives what he intends as an encouraging nod. Emma doesn't return his smile, but she lowers her weapon further at her side and relaxes her grip.
"As far as how I found you, I encountered Nelson." Emma's eyes go wide with fear. Her face drains of what little color it had and she flinches at the name. Once again, she has her weapon raised in the white-knuckled grip from a moment ago. "He informed me about the car being located around here." Hook is afforded just enough time to consider the grave error he made in mentioning Nelson to a girl who fled across the country to escape him. Quick as a shot, faster than he anticipates and too fast for him to intercept, she swings the candle holder for his head. She delivers a solid blow to his temple and scampers immediately out of reach as he falls to the ground. As his vision goes dark, he sees her dart out the door like a startled deer. Emma sprints away into the night like the hounds of hell are chasing her. His vision is blurred, but he can follow a white-blond head of bouncing curls getting further and further. Then everything goes black, and he succumbs.