They Grow So Fast...
Each character is eight years old. What would they say if you asked them what they wanted to be when they were older...?
William Turner: A blacksmith.
Elizabeth Swann: An explorer.
Anamaria: A performer.
Jack Teague: His father.
Cutler Beckett: King... king of everything!
James Norrington: Married to Elizabeth Swann.
Hector Barbossa: Rich.
Davy Jones: A taxidermist. (Okay, maybe not...)
Joshamee Gibbs: A landlord.
Mercer: A baker.
End of this little interlude.
Hector Barbossa stopped the man trying to get down the alley. He and a bunch of friends blocked the way down. The man looked around at them all, wearily.
"You can't come past here unless you pay," Hector said, with a smirk. He was quite tall and well-built as a child, and his other friends were all tough guys too, some of them even holding various bits of weaponry; nothing heavy-duty, of course, but in the wrong hands, almost anything sharp or heavy can be dangerous.
"But this is the only way to the Shiny Buckle," The man argued, thinking about how he was meant to be meeting his friends at the tavern. Hector leaned close to him.
"I know." He replied. With an exasperated sigh, the man dug into his pockets, pulling out a few coins, muttering under his breath about how it was that children on the streets had gotten so out of control. Hector ignored him, instead staring down at the coins now in his hand, a shine in his eyes.
The meaning to life is... money, he thought.
Will Turner hammered delicately at the sword, just small taps now, to help the shape along. He couldn't have one single flaw, one tiny mar on the sword he was creating. His face was streaked with ashes and sweat, the heat from the furnace working it's magic, but he ignored it, still going ever so carefully and slowly. He'd been working here for hours now. But it didn't matter.
He picked up the sword, examining it.
The mean to life is... doing things right, he thought.
Elizabeth pushed the chair across the floor with a scraping noise, stopping it just in front of the counter. Then she hopped onto the chair, and from that, stepped onto the counter. She wasn't, as such, meant to be in the kitchen. And she wasn't, as such, meant to be trying to steal the cookies. But Elizabeth didn't really pay much heed to silly rules like that.
Standing on tiptoe, she reached into the cupboard, pulling out a large jar. Scrambling with the top, she opened it with a hollow pop, and pulled out four chocolate chip cookies, stuffing one into her mouth instantly, and she shoved the cookie jar back in, the lid still off.
She walked back to the chair, leaving footprints on the counter-top, and then ran off out of the kitchen, leaving the cupboard door open and the chair still in it's place. She never was good at covering her tracks.
The meaning to life is... independence, she thought.
Cutler Beckett was watching his father commanding his troops around with a calculating look in his eye. He watched them marching in formation, their newly polished swords glinting in the powerful sunlight. His expression was impassive; he chewed his lip, deep in thought. His father bellowed out orders, and immediately they were followed, to a tee. I'm going to be like that. No... I'm going to be better then that. He cocked his head as they turned and marched again, out of sight, towards a mighty vessel.
The meaning to life is... power, he thought.
Jack was running again. He skirted around a building, and took off down the road, pushing people out of the way as he dashed. An angry shopkeeper was after him; no surprise, seeing as his prize turkey was now in Jack's arms. He went like a bullet, he knew the streets like the back of his hand, hopping deftly over patches of horse crap and slippery rain water gathered in the cobblestone road. The man behind him was shouting, Thief!
He grinned to himself, keeping a tight hold of the bird as he ran, ducking through an inn, rushing past the crowds of people chatting and laughing, even at this time of day, and then ran out of the back door, skipping around a group of children playing with a deflated ball, and then he was over a fence, through someone's back garden, and onto the pier. He slowed to a jog, tired, but happy.
The meaning to life is... fun, he thought.
James Norrington was sitting, cross-legged, on the grass, pretending to read a book, but really peering at the other children, one in particular. He was watching Elizabeth Swann. Watching as she laughed and joked with Will Turner. Watching as she played on the skipping rope with another gaggle of girls. Watching as Cutler Beckett pulled on her pigtail and she growled and jumped on him, trying to thump him, Beckett having learned his lesson about fighting girls helpless against her attack.
He cocked his head, wondering why it was that Cutler Beckett, a boy whom Elizabeth disliked strongly, got more attention from her then he did. He was quite a shy, timid boy; he guessed that added to it. But he couldn't help it. Mild-mannered, thoughtful and sweet at times, the little boy James only changed a little bit into his adulthood, though he did try to alter his quiet ways.
The meaning to life is... Elizabeth Swann, he thought. But what he really meant was love.
Anamaria was a hot-headed young lady, and she knew it. She didn't care, either. If someone was to disrespect her, she'd give them what for. It was only right, after all. When boys scrapped, she could easily beat up the lot of them, most of the time. So why was it that people refused to fight her, on account of her being a girl?
"What are you, chicken?" She taunted, as Jack Teague cocked his head at the challenge. "Buk-buk-buk! Yellow-bellied Jack – has a ring to it, don't you think?"
"Alright, you're getting it now!" He said, pouncing on her. She rolled with the blow, kicking him over into the gutter – he instantly recovered, and they rolled across the deserted street, kicking and fighting and laughing. Adults may tut – but it was only play fighting.
The meaning to life is... equality, she thought.
I wonder which one is true?
NB: Heh heh. This reminds me of the Monty Python song... Anyway. More randomness.