Names of the fallen did flash on the telly. It was static, with that sensory hell of hissing that went along with it, warping as if text itself couldn’t handle the truth of it all. Everyone was gone. Everyone.

“Everything started going to shit when Neb disappeared and you showed up.”
“That’s the general consensus,” I said dryly. I’d heard it all before. Neb had been the naive, selfless one, like the devoted, virtuous Will Turner in Pirates of the Caribbean. And here I was, the near-constantly sozzled, egotistical, and floundering Jack Sparrow, suddenly being called upon to save Elizabeth Swan, armed only with comedic relief and a petty streak.