These Are The Soul Cages

[byhisbootstraps]

It's quiet down here. It's been quiet for a while now, since the cannons stopped.

Since the screaming stopped.

Bootstrap Bill Turner sits in the tangled seaweed that strews the sodden floor of the Dutchman's brig, knees drawn up (there isn't room to stretch out his legs), and watches a tiny crab make its way down the opposite wall.

Comments

[dutchmancapn]

The crew's long scattered, intent on being in any location but the same bit of deck as Davy Jones.

Some, however, cannot hope to be so lucky.

A loud thump jars the hull and knocks the crab loose. Spooked, it skitters underneath the seaweed. Sea flora along the brig's ceiling immediately closes, pulling in on itself, as the thump's followed by several more in steady rhythm.

Jones comes into view, and the steady malevolence of his gaze is offset by how violently his beard thrashes.

[byhisbootstraps]

Bootstrap looks up, a beat slower than he once might have.

There should be fear, he knows. Instead there's only a dim distant wondering what Jones has to be angry about.

[dutchmancapn]

Thump. He hauls himself closer.

Hissed, between teeth clenched nearly too tightly to get the words out:

"On. Your. Feet, Turner."

[byhisbootstraps]

It's only the long habit of obedience that makes him pull himself up, but the fear's starting to well up through the numbness by the time he's on his feet.

It's not over.