She's been in Port Royal long enough to grow to despise it some. It's thick with the smell of shit, choked with people, and full of questions like Anne Bonny, yeah? You lose Rackham on the way here? People know her, not for the better, and every fucking time it happens, her hackles come up.
But she stays anyhow, trying to smooth down that sense of pique (been working near as long as he has, hard as him, and these bastards still think--) and make the contacts Max asked for. She's going to do that much while she's here, however long it takes. And it does take time: finding the right people, getting something like trust out of them, putting the offer forth. She's never done anything like it before--it's the kind of shit Jack would've managed for both of them. It takes her longer than it'd probably have taken him, and she can't do it the same way he would've, but she gets what she's come for eventually. Names, agreements, promises she can take back to Max.
And then she's got a choice. Has to go back to Nassau eventually, deliver on what she's agreed to do. (It's occurred to her more than once that she doesn't have to--that Max might have offered this as a clean escape for the both of them. But she's done it, and she's not going to let the effort go to waste. Whatever things are like back in Nassau, she owes Max this much.) But staying there, waiting to see what scraps she'll get, dry-docked on an island where nearly everyone can point her out...she can't do it.
She delays her return, turning her attention to finding a ship. A crew. And it's more Rackham's sailing under his own name these days, he finally decide you were bad luck? most of the time, but she lingers anyhow. The alternative's going back.
And then she hears the name of Flint bandied about, and it's the first possibility in days that seems worth chasing. Even hearing of the destruction he wreaked on Charles Town. (Maybe especially hearing that.) So she gives chase, figuring out where he's at--him, not his quartermaster, she'll need the captain on her side if she's to stay aboard more'n an hour--and going there. A bottle of rum purchased, an extra coin for pointing out which direction the captain's gone off to--it's almost too easy, getting to him.
He's a familiar shape, however poorly acquainted they might be, and he's alone. Mightn't've been hard to find after all, in the end. Stopping several paces away, she makes her presence known; of all people, Anne's not one to risk sneaking up on a man and getting herself gutted. "Captain Flint."
For a moment, the man at the seawall does nothing. He is a deeper, darker shape in the night - a black form in an evening unsoftened by reflected moonlight. When he does finally move, it's a small tip of the head in her direction and little else.
"What are you waiting for?"
Anne Bonny doesn't appear out of the dark in a place where she has no reason to be unless she's been bid there for a particular purpose.
"Ain't here to stab you in the kidneys." Is he expecting assassination attempts? He's a hard captain, nearly lost control of his ship at least once, far as she knows--but what she's heard of Charles Town has been told like a broadside ballad, not an accusation. If anyone's ready to make him pay for his last jaunt up the coast, they haven't started whispering to others yet. (Or, at least, not to Anne--but that ain't a surprise.)
She does come closer, though, figuring on this being about as good an invitation as she's getting. Her free hand's on the hilt of a dagger, but casually, like she just feels like remembering it's there. If there's a way to be casual about having a blade at your fingertips, anyhow. In a moment, she's standing near him, not quite in arm's reach, leaning against the wall.
"Looking to join a crew." Anne's never been one to drag this shit out--if she's getting a no, she wants it fast and over with.
Well he certainly isn't expecting that. It draws something in Flint short, dredging his attention around in a way that the perceived threat of her knife had failed to do. His weight, checked against the wall a moment ago, starts to shift from it. Then--
He huffs out a low, sullen noise. "Vane intends to be out at the first opportunity. If you have business with him, then I would invite you take it to him."
"Been on Vane's crew. I ain't going back to that." However she might feel about him now--it's a fondness born as much or more from seeing Jack's regard for him, and not always easily--she remembers the hardest days she had on the Ranger. It's nothing she intends to repeat, particularly not when it means she'll have walked away from Jack and towards one of the men he esteems most in this world.
The obvious doesn't need saying: Came to you because I want on your ship. He's probably already making up his mind, her luck. So she waits, watching him from under the brim of her hat.
Here is the list of things that lives under all the others: What happens when they return to Nassau? What happens once the men realize that they have half a ship at best, have no ransom money, no Spanish gold, have nothing but the pleasure of having razed a piece of the colonies? There will be a fort to repair, hard labor, and debts to repay. A partnership alone, some change in the arrangement of who wants to throttle who, isn't enough to change that. It is in everyone's interest not to remind anyone of that this is what they're going back to. The last thing any of them need is a reminder of how many times they will be dividing nothing between them.
And here is what he knows, the sizzling tide that rises any time his mind turns toward questions of semantics: fuck that. Fuck all of it. And fuck anyone who can't see the point in using this moment to exert all that pressure to make a blade to hack England's head off with. It's the thought that swallows. He is standing over it and can see what it looks like from above better than he can those rocks below them now in the dark. Drown him in that.
"I got two." Anne knows how this works, if only from watching other negotiations. It ain't supposed to be this easy. Especially not with a captain known for being hard, especially not when it means he's agreeing to have a woman among his crew.
Might be the stories of his island witch have some basis in fact--not the shit about magic, but his being run by some woman's voice in his ear. Or his need for a good knife or two on his side outweighs whatever backtalk his quartermaster'll give him over bringing on a crew-killer. (Or he just don't know what you did to that bastard up with the whore. That's why he ain't said no.)
She can't guess, looking at the dark shape of his features, which it is. She can't remember ever being stuck in the same room as him before, not without someone else there to do the talking; she's going to have to learn how to tell one of Flint's faces from the next. (Simultaneously, she misses Jack and hates him, little curls of both sensations tangling up together.) Which all means she has to ask it straight out, little though she wants to. "You expecting trouble?"
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But she stays anyhow, trying to smooth down that sense of pique (been working near as long as he has, hard as him, and these bastards still think--) and make the contacts Max asked for. She's going to do that much while she's here, however long it takes. And it does take time: finding the right people, getting something like trust out of them, putting the offer forth. She's never done anything like it before--it's the kind of shit Jack would've managed for both of them. It takes her longer than it'd probably have taken him, and she can't do it the same way he would've, but she gets what she's come for eventually. Names, agreements, promises she can take back to Max.
And then she's got a choice. Has to go back to Nassau eventually, deliver on what she's agreed to do. (It's occurred to her more than once that she doesn't have to--that Max might have offered this as a clean escape for the both of them. But she's done it, and she's not going to let the effort go to waste. Whatever things are like back in Nassau, she owes Max this much.) But staying there, waiting to see what scraps she'll get, dry-docked on an island where nearly everyone can point her out...she can't do it.
She delays her return, turning her attention to finding a ship. A crew. And it's more Rackham's sailing under his own name these days, he finally decide you were bad luck? most of the time, but she lingers anyhow. The alternative's going back.
And then she hears the name of Flint bandied about, and it's the first possibility in days that seems worth chasing. Even hearing of the destruction he wreaked on Charles Town. (Maybe especially hearing that.) So she gives chase, figuring out where he's at--him, not his quartermaster, she'll need the captain on her side if she's to stay aboard more'n an hour--and going there. A bottle of rum purchased, an extra coin for pointing out which direction the captain's gone off to--it's almost too easy, getting to him.
He's a familiar shape, however poorly acquainted they might be, and he's alone. Mightn't've been hard to find after all, in the end. Stopping several paces away, she makes her presence known; of all people, Anne's not one to risk sneaking up on a man and getting herself gutted. "Captain Flint."
if this posts twice I blame dreamwidth
"What are you waiting for?"
Anne Bonny doesn't appear out of the dark in a place where she has no reason to be unless she's been bid there for a particular purpose.
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She does come closer, though, figuring on this being about as good an invitation as she's getting. Her free hand's on the hilt of a dagger, but casually, like she just feels like remembering it's there. If there's a way to be casual about having a blade at your fingertips, anyhow. In a moment, she's standing near him, not quite in arm's reach, leaning against the wall.
"Looking to join a crew." Anne's never been one to drag this shit out--if she's getting a no, she wants it fast and over with.
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He huffs out a low, sullen noise. "Vane intends to be out at the first opportunity. If you have business with him, then I would invite you take it to him."
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The obvious doesn't need saying: Came to you because I want on your ship. He's probably already making up his mind, her luck. So she waits, watching him from under the brim of her hat.
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And here is what he knows, the sizzling tide that rises any time his mind turns toward questions of semantics: fuck that. Fuck all of it. And fuck anyone who can't see the point in using this moment to exert all that pressure to make a blade to hack England's head off with. It's the thought that swallows. He is standing over it and can see what it looks like from above better than he can those rocks below them now in the dark. Drown him in that.
"I could use a good knife," he says.
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Might be the stories of his island witch have some basis in fact--not the shit about magic, but his being run by some woman's voice in his ear. Or his need for a good knife or two on his side outweighs whatever backtalk his quartermaster'll give him over bringing on a crew-killer. (Or he just don't know what you did to that bastard up with the whore. That's why he ain't said no.)
She can't guess, looking at the dark shape of his features, which it is. She can't remember ever being stuck in the same room as him before, not without someone else there to do the talking; she's going to have to learn how to tell one of Flint's faces from the next. (Simultaneously, she misses Jack and hates him, little curls of both sensations tangling up together.) Which all means she has to ask it straight out, little though she wants to. "You expecting trouble?"
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"I aim to create it."
And if little else can be said about Anne Bonny's reputation, no one would deny her talent for that.