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It was incredibly tiring to keep up pretenses, Lord Cutler Beckett decided as he stood at the window of his East India Trading Company office. He was here, of course, on official Company business... of course. At least that was the pretense he was keeping. And it was weighing heavily on him. Every night, he was kept awake by images of power and gold and cursed Pirate ships... every night he was even more aware that as that night passed, he was farther away from attaining what he needed. And it was unbearable. The urge he had was unbearable. He needed to find that elixer.
His eyes focused on the horizon, where the glimmering sea lay in the distance. If it wasn't for these damned pretenses, he would be out there searching himself. But of course, physical labor of any kind was beneath Beckett. That was why he had certain lackies doing his certain dirty work. The only problem was that these certain lackies were... certainly unreliable, to say the least. It had been months since he heard any news.
Moving back to his desk, with a flourish of his tail coats he sat upon the straight-backed wooden chair. Soon he was deep into the official Company business that he was here to do. At least he looked the part of a Lord and successful business man.
And that, he supposed, was the pretense.
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