--Narrative continued by Professor Simon Woods—

It is remarkable how far I have come from my safe and reliable routine. I scarcely strayed from drifting between the comfort of Cornelius's grand library and my lonely laboratory, occasionally lecturing a small handful of pupils to whom my short life's dedication was just a steppingstone in their wider paths. Now, I hold a gun in my hands. Stars that be, a wild rifle weighs heavy in my clammy palms. My finger quivers over the trigger.

Somehow, no part of me longs to return to the quiet, predictable life I had. I always insisted, even to myself, that I enjoyed it. Being married to my work was everything, and yet... I would miss a certain purple scarf tickling my shoulder. I would miss sharing intellect outside of essays and demonstrations. Perhaps I would not, so much, miss the weight of this weapon and the responsibility with it, or the nauseating snakes writhing in the pit of my stomach at the question, could I kill?

The long grass brusges my chin and scratches unwantedly around my person, bringing out soft wrinkles in my salty clothing. A cool breeze ripples over my back and ruffles my oiled hair in a reassuring way. Cornelius and Lydia always believed that a lone sea breeze was the whisper of Laod's blessing.

As I am condemned, I cannot believe such things, though I appreciate the sentiment.

"Yous got drugs?" Harvey Cobbe grunts, dirty goblin talons ransacking my medical bag. Like a rat, he carelessly makes a mess of things, even with only one hand, his other clutched against his collarbone.

Scowling, I lower my rifle to the dirt and snatch my kit away. Disordered. How am I to find anything, if it is not in its designated compartment? "Cobbe! Pay attention, you fool. The captain is counting on the two of us, and everyone is counting on the captain."

He spits a revolting gob of tobacco and smears the juices on his lips all over the back of his hand and forearm. Then the animal shows me his two crooked middle fingers, one still burbling from its stunted height. I should bandage it, and the other stubs, but the thought of nursing this man particularly sickens me. It would wound my pride as much as his blasted side. The explosive had come out of nowhere. No other projectiles paid us any attention. I wonder if it was a misfire, or if the shooter simply lost sight of us after the first blow.

"I'll just bandage meself, then, eh, poofter."

I sneer and shove the bag back. "Are you in pain?"

"I've lost two and a half fine phal-en-giz—what did yeus say they was? Me fingers—and me whole side's a-lookin' likes chum for the fishes," Cobbe recounts snidely. "Am I in pain? Yeu dumbassed lil fag, am I in pain?"

The hairs on my nape rise in agitation. He's disgusting. He's offensive and crude.

I exhale loudly and scrape my fingers from my temples down to my chin, prickly with stubble. What would Elian think if I grew it out, I wonder? The texture makes me shudder and I lift my spectacles to rub my eyes. Sleep had evaded me last night and had only called briefly the night before. The dreadful creature spits again and I grimace. Revolting as he is, am I so revolting myself as to deny a suffering man help? Almost, perhaps, I loathe, but not quite.

"Let me bandage you, Mr. Cobbe," I sigh. "I don't have anything for your pain, but we can at least stem the bleeding. Then we really must pay attention. This Darling woman may not be as interested in one-on-one combat as Avery is."

"That's Captain Avery, to yeu," the gunner snaps, jagged teeth bared. "And it's part of the code, innit? They'll fight fair enough until the end. That's when yeu'd best grow a pair of men's balls and prepare to sheut the bitch. I ain't shooting without me lucky right trigger." He wiggles and bends his bleeding stub. "Ain't riskin' the captain on me left."

"You have a foul mouth." With a sigh, I pour alcohol onto a cloth and reach towards his lean frame. "This may hurt. Please remember to stay quiet as we don't want any attention on this ridge, remember?"

"Eh, who's the boss, 'ere? Me, poofter. Me." He snatches the cloth from my hand and takes me by surprise. The lift of my brows is entirely involuntary as the goblin scrubs his damaged brown skin as if the alcohol is no more abrasive to his wounds than lavender soap. I blink. Grumbling, he takes the bottle out of my hands. I feel it slip away, but scarcely register the theft until he is drenching the cloth in it a second time and cleaning his self once more thoroughly.

"That will do, Mr. Cobbe," I mutter, perplexed as I unfurl a roll of gauze.

He spits and raises the bottle to his lips.

"No, don't!" I protest quickly. My nose wrinkles and I wince, too late. "It's medicinal," I add weakly.

The liquid dribbles down his leathery throat, scampering from his prominent bobbing Adam's apple. He casts the bottle aside, emptied, with the blood-soaked cloth and wrings his wet lips with his good hand, narrow eyes scrutinizing me in a threatening manner that I cannot fathom. As if he dares me to tell him off for possibly killing himself with my cleansing spirit.

"Does the trick, dun' it," he growls, smacking his lips obnoxiously. His spindly talons grab at me. "Gimme that bandage and I'll do it myself. All I's wanted off'a yeus was sum'n for the pain. Get back on yer rifle and keep a sharp eye on the ginger."

The bandage is shoveled from my hand and he starts winding it around his own. My teeth clench and I shake my head. Be calm, Sim. Anger does strange things to the body as well as the mind, and the last thing that I need is for my hands to shake enough to dash the trigger.

I reposition the wooden butt of the rifle firmly twixt my shoulder and the earth. My dominant left hand loosely holds the grip, comfortable with my index finger hovering steady by the trigger in the case that it is needed. I squint over the sights, positioning the muzzle's point over the red-haired woman's chest. Not her heart, nor her skull.

She looks strong. Muscular, but in a way that it is subtle. Like a cat. Or, more fittingly, a wolf. My lips peel from my teeth musingly at the sight of her malicious smirk. Even at a distance, high on a ridge overlooking the small and empty clay village, I can see the characteristic fangs of a werewolf and read her alertness through the twitching of her slightly pivoting ears.

Officer Langley stands in shadows below, surely unaware that he has been detected. The Witch's ears pivot periodically towards him. She knows.

Her piercing emerald eyes shine hungrily, fixed on Captain Avery as she paces towards him with a swagger. She has the full bosom of a top dollar whore, but covers the lot as if to make it clear it isn't for sale. Her clothing is masculine, her visible physical strength arguably equally so, but her femininity is boasted in the bright red of her lips, her groomed eyelashes, and her long, curled ringlets, tied back only just enough that they do not dash over her plucked brow and scintillating gaze. In the sway of her hips she carries the fierceness of a tigress. A leader, unmistakably.

Captain Avery, on the other hand, may as well be drooling. Tactless, and yet paradoxically charming. As if swaying like a drunkard—though assuredly sober, on this occasion—somehow builds charisma. That captivating casual air, nauseatingly arrogant but inexplicably tempting. With the lusting dilation of his sparkling eyes and the haughty, beguiling grin lifting his groomed whiskers, I wonder if I will be observing a fight or passions between these powerful persons. His arms spread amiably, seemingly unaware of the long blade held easily by one, and his grin strengthens. If it weren't for the length of his hair and his unshaven jaw, he might have been attractive. I lick my lips and exhale quietly, leaning in over the rifle. Arrogance is not attractive.

Cobbe pulls a small gun from his waistband. A strange one, from his specialty collection. After shoving a fresh gob of plug against his tongue, he pulls a long lever on the device until it clicks.

"What is this?" I ask, peering over my spectacles.

"Eayers."

"Ears?"

I jump as he fires, fingers splaying away from my rifle's trigger. A conical end slithers through the air on a rope, propelled from the barrel of Cobbe's peculiar weapon. The cone arcs, near silent, as graceful as a fallen handkerchief, down to the small square below. It bounces twice and stills at the side of a twisted clay tower, just around the corner from our targets of attention.

"What do you mean, 'ears'?"

The saliva and tobacco juices swish so loudly as he chews that I nearly retch, feeling a clench in my chest of sheer revolt. Swish, swill, suck, squish, chew, gurgle, gargle, spit. As if he were attempting the Aquian tongue. I shudder and return my attention to the sights of my weapon, to the circling pirates.

Cobbe opens a compartment at the top of his gun and pulls out the other end of the long rope coil to expose a cone, identical to that which was thrown. He places it on the ground between us and shuffles forward on the ridge, wounded hand close to his bony chest. He licks his lips, squinting.

"I spied you and your ship through my glass, Hank," I hear.

Startled, my eyes gape at the cone.

Cobbe gestures to it. "Eayers," he repeats. "Get yeur eyes on her. I heard the Witch's the only one in the world to beat the captain in a fair swordfight."

"Then why are we not permitted to intervene?"

Cobbe shrugs. "It's the code. Her crew ain't gun' interfur either, not until some'un cheats. And if we cheats, we's dead."

"You're tired, hon," the woman purrs, her voice honeyed, rich. Her hands fall over Captain Avery's shoulders, massaging him. Long crimson nails hover a hair's breadth from his clavicles. Maybe they are painted with blood. Some appear browned in the same way blood turns as it dries, some gleaming red as if fresh from flesh. "If you give me the painting and the map and the heir... I'll call off my men. We'll call it a misunderstanding and wrap it up in two shakes. We can all drink and be merry and share this land. There's no need to lose any more lives. No need to lose another crew, is there, Henry?"

"Ha!" Captain Avery brushes her off and casts her aside, turning his pointed nose up. Its strong bridge reflects what is left of the sunlight beneath the black vortex overhead. His jaw comes forward with tension. "Do you mean livestock? As if you care for lives, you heartless wretch. I will never drink with you again."

The woman's face hardens behind his back, then softens instantly as he rounds on her. Manipulative. Playing to his weaknesses. From slits, her eyes widen to dinner plates as his land upon them. Her plump lips simper and part, exposing a gap between her front teeth.

"I demand," Avery continues, "that you take your dastardly crew away from these isles and find some other land to terrorize. The heir is under my and my crew's protection, as is the location of the treasure."

"Well. I am not going anywhere, nor is my operation. We are rolling in cash, Hank. You could join us. You're a fine sailor, a fine swordsman. A strong pirate. We could dig up the treasure together. We would be powerful. You and I, ruling the seas."

"Bitch. If I wanted to rule the seas, I could do it by myself."

She straightens sharply and flashes him that same arrogant grin that he had bared to her minutes before. There is madness to it. A crazed glint in her eyes as her blade draws from its sheath with a menacing scrape. "Then, we fight? You on... a crutch?" She laughs. Like the trill of bells, but sharper. As if those bells prickled with rust. "You'll lose another crew!"

"I won't lose anything!" the captain snarls, every muscle flaring with aggression. He looks her up and down and spits at her boots. "Nothing that I would miss."

She gnashes her lupine teeth, lips curling with her fiercely scrunched nose. "Then you will join your ship at the bottom of the lagoon. Dead and forgotten and left to rot. I won't lose to an arrogant cripple."

Crying out, the captain lunges at her and their swords clash with a reverberating screech that echoes through the village and bounces off the clay walls. She shoves him backwards and he throws his crutch at his heels to cease his staggering and retaliate.

"I heard that she spreads poison on her blade," Cobbe says gravely, his eyes wide and flitting, following the deadly dance below with excitement. "If it cuts him, he's dead."

"That's hardly fair," I mumble worriedly, keeping my sights set on her. "How is she is allowed to use poison? Could he use his Gift?"

"I ain't never seen him more drained than he was gettin' here. He'd be stupid to waste energy on his Gift, cuz he ain't got much left. Whatever yer lady friend did to him with those needles, I doubt it's gun' last forever. A fight's a fight, so's the ones what made the rules don't mind so much 'bout how the winner wins, ay. Poison gets the job done." He scratches his mane of white, swishing the juices between his cheeks. "They say it's on her lips, too. They say she's kissed him before, an' he nearly died for it."

"Why did he kiss her, then?" I frown. "And who told you these things? Who is 'they'?"

"Leslie. Langley. Dorian, a bit." He wets his lips. The Witch pins Captain Avery against a wall. His sword quivers against hers, holding it back, barely, from his throat. The blades grind a deadly whisper. "Every sailor worth his salt knows tales of the Witch, but ain't one story told at sea brings up poisoned kisses, save for on him. She ain't doing it for twisted romance, Teach. She ain't doing it because she's thirsty for a man. Nah. Nah, that woman's as much a queer as yeus, I'd reckon. It's a game, innit? Break a man's heart, break a man. But only our captain, because he's the only one she hasn't been able to break otherhow. He's her match, she's his. But soon we'll see who's better."

Captain Avery thrusts his knee to her groin and throws her back. Her fiery hair flicks through the air with a shake of her head and her gaze catches him, livid, as her heels plant in the packed dirt, stance wide and low. A breath escapes; a laugh of malice and pleasure. Her tongue rides smoothly over her upturned lips and she beckons him forward.

Avery swings on his crutch, eyes narrow, watching her like prey as he takes his time in his advance. Biding breath. Duh-clunk. Duh-clunk. He slashes a cross in the air, showing off, and tilts his head so his long and messy ponytail drapes over one shoulder.

She waits. Waits.

"I can see their arrogance is matched," I remark. In this twisted game, they toy with one another. Laughing, rolling shoulders, testing blades. Each despises the other but enjoys the company. Their faces are flush with as much exhilaration as threat.

They circle. Lunge, parry, dodge, fleche, duck. Quick, expert, confident. At points, my eyes cannot keep up with their blades, and in one moment the glinting steel is in the sky and the next I see it catching the threads of a coat, No blood has been drawn and no man has been poisoned. They dance a feverish, crazed dance. Both sides take similar steps, predict the other with similar ease, tease like old friends. A tango of two stories that once intertwined.

Darling begins a lunge and Captain Avery falls for the feint. She ducks slightly and catches his elbow under her arm as it propels towards her, blade grazing her high collar. Before her poisoned steel can plunge through his stomach, he kicks her squarely with the length of his leg and staggers her safely away.

"Less kicking, more blade, Avery!" barks the Witch. She scrapes the dirt like a bull, rearing to charge.

The captain sneers. "No more playing, kitty. I'm sure your men are getting tired, fluttering about in the field. Let us finish."

"My men?" Shrill bells ring out. "I wonder if any are left of yours..."

He shouts with anger but makes no impulsive move. Instead, his chest rises higher, then higher with the curl of his lips and the baring of his teeth. Rising and falling deeply, his skin begins to—astonishingly—grey. His shoulders draw back. Even under his thick naval sleeves I can see the rippling of muscles building themselves. The material stretches taut. A seam along the side splits.

"Impossible." The word escapes my lips. I lift my head, taking my eyes from the sights of the rifle to take it in, to marvel at it with fascination. This had never happened before. Never in history. Never in all the books that I have read nor the cases I have studied. Never.

"You will never have this, Darling," growls the captain through a hairless black muzzle. It retains the prominent arch of his nose. His green eyes stand out like lighthouses over stony cheeks.

"It is not a full moon," I murmur.

"He's holding back," Cobbe dismisses, grunting. "He's only baitin' her."

"I will have it," Darling returns, teeth gnashing.

Lithely, she circles. She darts around his person and first swings at his crutch. Blades clash, but his strength is greater now and she is stunned by miscalculation. She retreats nimbly, then moves around him once again. He swivels as she swipes for his peg. His crutch lifts against the back of her hand with such raw power and force that the whack echoes through the buildings as loudly as the fallen blade, convulsing like a spasming corpse against the ground. Darling throws her emptied palm against his head, grabbing a handful of hair and scraping his brow deep enough that blood hesitantly trickles out.

His crutch swings—as it had against Officer Langley high in the shrouds in his foolhardy practices—under her feet and she falls to her thigh with a cry of surprise. Her hand shoots for her sword, but Captain Avery's peg is quicker to send it skittering long away.

The point of his sword hovers at her chin.

Their eyes lock. His glint madly with the shine of one who has just told a joke. His breath huffs through his triumphant grin, muzzle receding slowly. His clothing relaxes as his frame reduces in bulk.

The Witch's eyes bore like a puppy's, but the captain shows no remorse.

"By the code, the fight is done," he states coldly. "You have lost. Our seconds are witness."

She shakes her head, showing no fear behind her smile. Green eyes clash against their green adversaries, the blade ignored. "You couldn't kill me, Hank."

"I am sure that you would like to think so." He smiles back, bittersweet as he takes a knee, his weight pinning her legs down. His sword raises over her chest in both hands, crutch laid aside. "But, you are wrong."

I close my eyes in the instant that he drives the blade into her chest, unable to watch. Nausea—a side effect of morality—refluxes from my gut like chemicals, bubbling painfully up my throat. Not to be released.

"Shoot, man!" Cobbe howls suddenly. His hand blows against the back of my head and I splutter with the impact. "Shoot! SHOOT!"

My eyes fly open too late. I try to aim. I try, but I am too late, because I had to close my eyes, didn't I? You cowardly pansy, you had to close your eyes. I had to close my eyes! And now they are welling, though my face is slack and my heart is still and my mind has ceased to function.

How? My finger slips from the trigger. The gun falls from my hands.