A Pirate's Life For Me

A New Companion

A/N: So this chapter is not very long and apparently I've found the italics button because shit that's a lot of slanted words. But I actually forwarded the plot. Be proud.

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I've officially signed my death warrant.

"Where is he?" The doctor growls, thrashing the whip through the air again, landing it across my chest for the hundredth time. My head barely moves from where it's hung.

Sure, admitting to finding a treasure is bad. Admitting that I had a partner is even worse. Admitting who that partner is, is serious enough. But I gave up Hazleton Blythe, the ruthless pirate of the Eastern Sea. And unlike mine, his reputation isn't fabricated.

"Where is he?!"

Pain wracks through my body in waves, but it's hardly a new concept. I still don't move. Compared to what will happen to me if I ever get out, it's nothing at all.

"Mr. Jewell," The doctor growls, hand gently winding through my hair, sharply pulling it up to face his. A tingle of fear goes down my spine as he says my name, but it pales in comparison to his request. I know what he'll say before he says it; this is his last warning. "This is my last warning. I have plenty of incentive still left at my disposal; it would be in your best interest to comply."

Psh. Incentive? Right now, this cell is the only thing keeping me alive. Assuming he isn't lying about setting me free, the instant I tell him, I'm as good as dead.

Speaking of cell.

I've been moved. Probably in those beautiful three hours of sleep, they shifted me to a different, larger room, wearing different clothes, shackled in a different position, with the same torment. This cell has a tiny, barred window; I've started keeping track of the hours. It's been one day since my surgery. Surprisingly, my shoulder wasn't the only thing he supposedly fixed. My fingers are also in a splint, held straight and stiff out to my sides, arms stretched into a T across the center of the room, ankles pulled apart as well, body weight still resting on my knees.

Dr. Stone scoffs at me, disgusted, dropping my head heavily back to my chest and stomping across the room. "GO!" He screams, making me flinch, sending the two guards in the corner out of the room and into the hallway, the barred door slamming shut behind them.

He sucks in a deep breath through his nose, eyes closed, jaw clenched. I peek at his steepled fingers through my hair.

"Mr. Jewell," he sighs heavily. "Obviously, your own state of being is of little conscience to yourself. Threat of death or mutation is moot, as well. You've put me in quite a pickle. How do I get the prisoner with no regard for his own well-being to cooperate with my wishes?"

A muffled scream sounds out in the hallway, the sounds of a scuffle. A prickle of unease crawls over my scalp.

The doctor smiles. "And then it came to me. 'Who did he save on the dock,' I thought. 'Who saved him?' I knew you and your ridiculous sense of honor would lead you to repay the debt, and so you did, drawing a reaction long enough for the child to run from the scene. And there was my answer."

He didn't.

The guards come in, both with backs to us, dragging something in front of them, something that's grunting like an animal, something flailing about, something familiar.

He did.

"Behold, Mr. Jewell," the doctor smiles, meeting my glare with his amusement. "I've brought you a friend."