Once upon a December ...
There's something in the air. Something like ... a sense of yellow tinted blur, with unusually high contrast between light and dark! There might even be cross-dissolves.
Could this be a flashback?
Could this be a flashback?
When she does not find her husband's ship, and thus her husband, readily accessible, her feelings toward the bar are decidedly less fond. Disappointment and irritation at wasted time and effort bubbles over, making her scowl.
Today's frustration is particularly keen; there is something she very much wishes to discuss with Will. But time and fate have not seen fit to conspire on their behalf and all Elizabeth wants to do is get back to the Empress.
If only all these people would get out of the way. The bar is full, more so even than when she went outside, and every path to the front door is clogged with bodies. Elizabeth scowls harder and starts working her way through the crowd, pushing people lightly aside as is needed.
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"PIRATES. The sort that have ships, fight with swords and drink unhealthy amounts of rum?" She narrows her eyes. "Are you being thick-headed on purpose?"
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West is flummoxed.
"But this is the twenty-first century."
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Not that being uninformed is any excuse for his behavior or general ignorance.
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She chooses the possible intimidation factor over strict truth.
"Yes."
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"So you're basically a parasitic sociopath whose ilk have been recently glorified as a pop culture phenomenon?"
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The silly bar rules are far from her mind as Elizabeth slowly draws her sword, but she at least flicks her eyes right and left before doing so. The exceptionally well-made blade clears the sheath with a pleasant snck and Elizabeth points it at the boy, holding it and angling her head in a way that suggests the sword isn't just for show. She's good with it.
"I don't care for your tone."
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It occurs to West that parasitic sociopaths are the people you aren't supposed to annoy. This is the kind of realization that ideally comes a little earlier in the conversation.
Sadly, in times of tension, West gets even less tactful.
"There are rules against violence, you know," he informs her. "Also business and being naked, not that either of us are in danger of breaking those ones --"
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One might say breaking them is a pirate's business. As for the naked:
"Perhaps I'll steal your trousers and force you to... walk the plank," she practically purrs, drawing out the last.
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"I've seen the Code firsthand, as it was set forth by Captains Morgan and Bartholomew at the second calling of the Brethren Court. Pirates must keep to the Code." Beat. "Pirates also know the rules are really more guidelines."
She smirks.
"Have you not seen the Flying Dutchman off these very shores?"
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"Wait, what? I thought he was Italian."
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The Pirate King is starting to get a headache.
"The ship," she grinds out, "of which my husband is captain. It's famous."
Infamous, even.
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"Your husband keeps a ship in this lake? What's the point of that? It's not like you can get anywhere."
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She's running out of whatever patience she'd found to get this far in the conversation.
"The Caribbean inlet in the lake is connected to our seas, made thus by Calypso herself. The Dutchman and my husband, Captain Will Turner, sail between worlds, collecting all those souls that die at sea."
Leaning in, she stares into his eyes.
"Perhaps someone will give you cause to meet him."
Never mind that he's not from her world, and might never go to sea. She can't very well bash him over the head with the butt of her pistol in the middle of the bar, so planting that vague, unsettling notion in his mind will have to do.
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