The boy stood with his fists held before his face, eyes hard and set, determined and ready and bouncing slightly on his toes and completely open. John Silver shifted his left leg, his cyborg peg purchasing a steadier grip along the galley floor. He held his arms loosely at his side—one flesh, one metal—palm rising to summon the boy to him. Come on, then. The boy came forward with a mighty lunge, dipping and thrusting first one then the other fist forward. They skittered over Silver’s massive belly like ants. It tickled a bit. Silver blocked the rest of the blows and pushed the boy away with a thrust of his chest.

"Hey!" came the surprised protest.

"No offence, Jimbo," Silver chuckled. "But ye fight like a baby." He laughed, a deep rattle from deep within his chest, and easily stepped aside as Jim lunged forward again, his heavily favoured right arm attempting to connect with Silver’s rib cage. "What’s that?" the cyborg laughed. "Yer fists is everywhere! Ye aimin’ t’land a punch by sheer dumb luck?"

Jim lowered his fists and glowered at the old sea cook. His chest was rising and falling in sharp little bursts of breath, sleeves rolled up almost to his forearms. His long bangs trailed over his cheeks and brow, dotted with little beads of sweat. His knuckles were red, scratches and nicks running along the surface from where he had made contact with the cyborg’s mechanical right arm.

"You’re not teaching me anything," he accused hotly. "All you’re doing is jumping about and letting me make an idiot out of myself."

Silver chuckled, running his metal fingers over his jowls. "Now, now, boyo. Ye’ve learned some. Finally got ye t’put up them fists t’yer face, f’r one. Posture’s improved somew’at, punches extendin’." He grinned at the boy’s sceptical frown. "Can’t learn ye everything in one day. No one be that natural."

Pulling off his red bandana, the cyborg sat down with a heavy sigh. He made a great show out of stretching out his arms and yawning and reaching back to scratch his neck, fingers dipping beneath the metal plate that attached his cybernetic arm to his flesh. A trill sounded from behind him, and his little pink shape-shifter bubbled out, chirping as it rubbed against his temple.

"Hallo there, Morph," he said, scratching beneath the blob’s shifting body. "Ye tell that cabin boy o’ours t’get himself on deck an’ moppin’."

Jim looked up sharply from where he had sagged against a barrel, rubbing his sore back muscles. "What? But the deck is—"

"A great way t’build up them watery muscles of yers."

The cyborg waved away the boy’s angry protests. He watched, out of the corner of his eye, as Jim snatched up a bucket and brush and stomped up the galley stairs in a huff, muttering some very unsavoury things about cyborgs in general, Silver in particular, and what the cook could do with himself and several lemons.

Silver could only chuckle. He ran a hand over his good ribs and pressed his fingers against the spots where the boy had connected. Definitely a lot more strength than last week, when the lad had stood before him with his fists rammed firmly into his battered coat and glared at the floor and muttered out that he’d like to learn how to fight.

The cook dipped a spoon into the broth he was simmering. "Now why’d ye wanna learn ye som’thin’ like that?"

He heard Jim pull himself on top of the counter and begin to poke aimlessly at a pile of pink balooba berries. "You know why," he mumbled, face averted. "Almost got myself beaten by that ugly arachnid guy yesterday and—"

"Scroop? Don’t ye be worryin’ ‘bout Scroop none, boy."

Covering the broth, Silver wiped his arms on his apron and took one hard look at Jim. The boy sat in a hunch, shoulders sticking out, poking holes with his index finger into a helpless batch of berries, face scarlet with embarrassment and resentment. Silver rubbed long and hard at the back of his head. The boy looked mighty serious.

"I can’t have you defending me all the time," Jim said, his voice low.

"No, I guess, not. Still—"

Blue eyes flashed as Jim levelled Silver with a steady, penetrating gaze. "I want to learn how to fight my own battles."

Under the weight of that stare, Silver began to feel his reserves weaken. The boy was in some desperate need of learning how to take care of himself. The crew didn’t think much of him—and that Silver could attest to—and the boy’s tendency to mutter dark remarks under his breath wasn’t likely to remedy the situation any time soon. Left alone, as he was, the lad was staring straight into being thrown out into the etherium. Beaten to resemble all colours of the spacescape, at the very least. Silver sighed, his shoulders slumping.

"All right, then, I’ll give ye a few pointers." He raised one stern, metal finger. "But. If I’m t’learn ye how to dole out punches, then yer t’dole out double yer share of work, unnerstand? The cap’n’s none too fond of either you or me, an’ we don’t need t’be givin’ her no reason t’dislike the cut o’us anymore ‘an she already does."

The boy’s face broke out into a smile. He jumped down from the counter and took up Silver’s good hand, shaking it up and down in excitement. "Anything!" he said. "You name it, I’ll get it done."

Silver walked back towards the stove and uncovered the broth. He stirred the contents twice and took a taste, rolling the liquid over his tongue. He added a dash of pepper and slid a crafty gaze towards Jim. The boy stood in a state of barely controlled motion, his smile still firmly in place, eyes shinning. Silver covered the broth again and spoke slowly, reaching up to unhook a few Verondian calamari heads.

"So’s ye won’t mind a bit o’extra moppin’, then?" He slid into the first head, thick yellow liquid oozing out onto the work counter. "Or barnacle scrappin’? Or pot scrubbin’?"

Jim nodded, lips set in a determined line. "Just say the word."

Silver turned towards him, leaning close, his face inches away from the boy’s. Determined young man, lower lip thrust out. Crafty old cyborg, good eye shinning, cyborg eye whirring close.

"All three," he said, slowly. "By tonight."
 
 

Jim flopped down onto his hammock with a groan. Every muscle along his body ached, including a little cluster just below his armpits that he didn’t even know he had. He kicked off his boots with his feet and pulled the rest of himself onto his hanging sleeping cot. He had no idea how late it was. Everyone else was already snoring and wheezing and sighing away at their own hammocks, though, so Jim was pretty certain that the etherium would grow light again in just a few hours. He shut his bleary eyes and silently cursed all barnacles to a hot, rotten, and burning place.

A quick pressure made its way up his spine, and he wriggled, lurching, sending the pressure scurrying away with a mystifyingly happy chirp. Jim cracked open one eye and mock glared at Morph.

"Go bother someone else," he muttered, turning over onto his back.

He draped one arm over his eyes. Morph settled on his wrist, happily repeating every last two words he said. The cold, gelatinous substance of Morph’s body actually felt good against his thoroughly overworked muscles, though, so Jim allowed him to stay there, gurgling away, shifting into boots and hammocks and sleeping riggers and—darn the little imp—barnacles.

The last few days had been a blur for Jim. A painful blur. Snatches of it came back in flashes, muddled and foggy. The hull, barnacles, the deck, his hands on a brush, soap bubbles, pots, pans, thick black grease, more when the first batch was over. Silver always looming over his shoulder, promising more work with a chuckle and a wink and a whistle. Then it was more pots, cleaning the longboats, securing sails, knotting his hands and the rope and the rigging slipping by beneath him. He took a breather one day, the breeze playing out over his hair, cooling his brow, and all that accomplished was an extra tower of dishes, thick with crusted grease and a sloppy grey something Jim didn’t even want to think about.

But it was worth it.

Every night, he would climb down into the galley, tossing his apron, his jacket, his bucket, and his mop into a corner. Every night, he’d square off against Silver, run himself ragged in the hopes of one day landing that elusive crack, a punch, the satisfaction of feeling his fist connect, maybe draw blood, certainly surprise. He would bounced lightly on his toes and watch his arms extended and fold back, jab, strike, turn back, pull a muscle, the ceiling and the floor switching places as Silver flipped him off his feet. And he always stood right back up, chest heaving, fists ready, eyes bright.

Scroop had pattered away into a hazy memory, some sort of reason. It no longer seemed important. Dreams of catching the arachnid on the deck and letting loose several expert jabs into his self-satisfied face melted away, replaced by the urgency of making sure that Silver wouldn’t beat him to the ground. The desire to make Silver proud. That’s all that mattered. That and landing at least one good punch.

Jim turned on his side, Morph curling into the dip between his shoulder and his neck. He felt the muscles along his arms and back and legs, tight and bruised and tired and burning, and it was worth it.
 
 

"Put a little more life into them punches, boy!" Silver said, one hand firmly clamped over the boy’s head as he attempted to reach any part of the cyborg’s body he could lay a finger to. "Look at ye. Jest look at ye." The cyborg shook his head, clucking his tongue. "Five minutes in, and ye’ve disintegrated into a clawing cat." He shoved Jim away and ran a hand over his perspiring brow.

Jim drew in a few sharp breaths, his teeth burning. He pushed his sleeves up higher and rushed at Silver. If he could only land a punch—one measly punch—on the cyborg’s chin. But everything just kept eluding him. His arms felt useless. Silver turned away every fist he thrust out, Jim’s eyes staring out in disbelief as his arms were pushed away, over and over, effortlessly. In a blinding instant, the cook connected a blow to Jim’s stomach, and it was several minutes before he could straighten, his head reeling. He gripped his sides and attempted to lurch forward, only to feel the weight of Silver’s arms as the older man grasped his shoulders.

"No," Silver said grufly. "None o’that. Yer winded boy. Down f’r the count. Best take a breather an’ pick up again tomorrow."

Jim shook his head, ignoring the little bursts of meaningless colour that accompanied the motion. "No," he croaked. "I want to... go on."

"Go on t’yer grave, ye mean." Silver’s arms increased in pressure, and Jim felt himself being pushed down onto a stool. He attempted to get back on his feet, but Silver only held him down more tightly. "Yer goin’ t’rest, boy, whether ye want to or not. I ain’t takin’ this one step further till you get yer wind back."

Nodding dumbly, Jim accepted a bowl of soup. The earthenware bowl felt warm and inviting against his hands, and he suddenly realized how starved he was. It had been days since he had eaten a good, square meal. Before Silver could even hand him a spoon, he began to slurp at the soup, gulping it down like a starving man. He heard the cyborg chuckle.

"That good?"

He ran a hand over his mouth, broth staining his thumb, and took the spoon Silver held out. "That hungry," he answered. He ate the rest of the soup in a ravenous instant, licking the spoon and bowl for good measure. When he was done, he allowed his head to rest against the counter. That simple motion, once so normal and unexamined, now reminded him acutely of the fact that muscles ran all along his neck and shoulders and chest and back, connected and straining. He rubbed at his ribs and shot Silver a questioning look through lowered eyelids.

"When does the pain go away...?"

The stool beside him creaked as Silver sat down for his own dinner. "Bout the same time ye start connectin’ yer punches."

Jim looked down at the floor, his breaths slowing down, the sweat running down his back cooling. He closed his eyes and allowed his muscles to go slack, the fight filtering out of him. At length, he pushed away from the counter and looked at Silver. The cyborg’s back rose beside him in a dark shadow, shifting as the man ate his soup in silence. Watching him, Jim’s thoughts began to wander. A hazy memory. Rain. Holo-blinds cracking open to reveal a huddled mass of men. Darkness and raindrops and a hunched, bulking figure. Jim’s eyebrows knitted together.

"What’s in that?" he heard himself say.

The cyborg took one slow slurp. "Not much. Bit’a carrots, tuber roots, ptedron eggs, a smidgen of pepper, chunks of red meat. Simple recipe for a quick meal."

"No purps?"

The dark mass that was Silver’s back never shifted. A deep, satisfied slurp drifted out, followed by the cyborg smacking his lips, running a hand over his mouth. "No," he said, his voice even and friendly. "No purps. Ye let me know if ye want anything with them, boyo."

He didn’t answer. He laid his head over his arm and gazed out across the galley kitchen. His eyes came to rest on the stove, and they lingered there. A pot was set to simmer atop it, dinner for the rest of crew. Small, orange flames danced below it, snapping and cracking, weaving. Jim found himself staring at them, unable to look away. They shivered once, then steadied, bright orange and yellow and red and white.

Fire.
 
 

The voices of the crew came from below, laughing at a joke, scrapping along Jim’s nerves. He sat balanced on the rigging, looking out at the etherium. Not really seeing it. His eyes kept drifting back towards the crew. The arachnid Scroop and Turnbuckle and a few of the ropers and Silver. Standing together, a huddled mass of grey that shifted every now and then. Scroop stretching out to spit over the side, Silver slapping his knee in laughter.

Jim looked at the dark, immense figure that was Silver, and he seemed to loom ever larger in his vision. A devouring shadow. Grey on black. Hidden behind a curtain of rain and his own hair and his own fear. Jim’s fingers rose to trail over his knuckles. The motion made him wince, his fingers scratching over cuts and bruises that hadn’t fully healed.

Laughter rose again from below, a deep funnel of a laugh Jim recognized as Silver. His mechanical arm waved in the air, muted in the growing darkness. Jim found himself staring at it, at two pistons and metal plates and wiring. Clicking and whirring. He could hear it. Clicking and hissing and whirring.

A sudden burst of light flared out towards the starboard side, and Jim found himself looking at it. It spread out in a small shower, a thin trail of orange stars that spilled forward like a river. They hung, suspended, in a shimmering cloud of white, drifting by, flaring out in leaps and sputters of light. Jim saw, reflected in the outbursts, the face of Silver. Framed by the orange light, shadows stretching out across his face, he looked barely recognizable. His skin hung in flaps, bulbous nose crinkled, gapped teeth stretching out into a smile.

A leer.

Jim tightened his hand into a fist. He could see Silver, framed by the white outbursts. Framed by rain and mist and flames.

Jim stood in a huddled slump, shoulders sagging forward, fists buried deep within his jacket. His mouth was set in a grim, humourless line. Silver hesitated as he climbed down the galley steps. The boy’s eyes, steely blue, seemed harsh. Much too harsh. The cyborg ran a nervous hand over the leg of his pants and fixed a crooked smile on his face.

"Boyo?" he said with forced nonchalance. "You ready?"

The boy never shifted, his eyes obscured under his bangs and his thick eyebrows. "Yeah," he said in a low voice. "Whenever you’re ready."

Silver came to stand before him with an uncertain frown. He rubbed his palms together, metal fingers scrapping over the tough skin of his good hand. He coughed, once, his eyes running up and down Jim as he stood in a distant, closed stance, fists shifting within his jacket. The jacket he hadn’t worn in days. Not since his training had begun. Silver’s gaze shifted to a place behind Jim’s head.

"What’s wrong, boy?" he asked plainly.

It was a few minutes before Jim answered. When his voiced drifted out, it sounded so unlike anything he had said after climbing on board the Legacy, that the sound surprised even him. It was cold and distant and alien and it belonged to a stranger.

"Were you in Montressor?"

Silver’s face betrayed no hint of feeling. All feeling seemed to have drained out of it. His eyes narrowed somewhat, but relaxed almost at once. There was no warmth in them, however, only a dull, lifeless darkness. A gear within his cybernetic eye whirred, the sound echoing within the galley.

"No," he said.

The word sounded heavy. Silver opened his mouth, ready to follow it with words that would set the boy at ease. "I was—"

"You’re lying to me." Jim stepped away from Silver, his eyes flashing, once, anger rising to the surface. It was gone in a heartbeat, leaving behind a cold certainty. "You were there, weren’t you? The night—"

"I told ye once, I don’t aim t’tell ye again, boy." Silver’s eyes narrowed, his mismatched gaze resting heavily on Jim’s face. "I’ve never been to Montressor."

Jim bared his teeth. "Quit lying to me," he spat. He saw Silver’s arm rise, reaching for his shoulder, and he jerked back. His lower spine bumped against the counter, upsetting a knife that lay along its edge. It clattered to the ground with a shrill echo. Jim’s voice rose into the silence. "Quit lying to me!"

He stood, silent, as Silver’s eyes shadowed over, his arm moving slowly back to his side. The cyborg seemed to grow larger, imposing. A monster rising out of the rain and the fog, hunched and priming his weapons. His cyborg arm. Jim’s eyes rose to rest on it, clicking and humming in the emptiness of the galley, and he felt his insides grow cold and hollow.

Silver’s voice was low, barely audible. "What are you going to do?"

No answer came. Jim merely edged away from him, walking backwards towards the galley stairs. His eyes were dull, hard, reflecting nothing even as they seemed to reflect Silver. A shadow hovered over Jim, reaching out to blot the silvery starlight that spilled down into the galley, obscuring the boy’s face until the only thing Silver could see were his eyes. The boy’s fists hung at his sides, tight, his knuckles white. He seemed about to say something, words trembling over his lips. Silver spoke before he could.

"Whenever you’re ready, boy."
 
 

Silver sat down with a heavy sigh. Morph hovered at his shoulder, gurgling sadly as the cyborg pulled his battered hat low over his eyes and hung his head. A sigh escaped into the air, Silver’s broad shoulders rising and falling with a metallic creak. He raised his hand and Morph slid down towards it, nestling between the cyborg’s fingers as he pressed the little blob close to his cheek.

"What am I gonna do, eh, Morphy?" he murmured.

He remained silent, hunched. The daylight filtering down through the hatch was fading, drawing all sharp angles with it, leaving behind ghost shapes and uncertainty. Morph pressed closer to Silver’s cheek and the cyborg ran a finger down his back. He didn’t say a word, his mind only half-heartedly into the task. At length, he spoke again, his voice heavy and colourless.

"He’ll be here any minute now."
 
 

The light had faded completely as Jim made his way down into the galley. Silver sat at a table, in the shadows, wearing his coat and hat. Jim walked towards him in silence. He pulled a bench forward, the wood scrapping along the floor, groaning back into his ears. He sat down stiffly and stared at Silver’s hands, folded before him, metal against flesh.

"So," Jim said at length.

"Ye want to go through with this?"

Jim nodded, once. He heard Silver push away from the table, a hiss escaping from his peg. For a moment, he felt as if the world had stopped, frozen there at that moment. Him on the bench, hunched into his jacket. Silver standing over him, the table between them, waiting. At length, Jim pushed out the breath he had been holding. It hung in the air, stale, and then Jim had gotten to his feet.

Silver folded his arms. His eyes were emotionless. "Should I fight back, then?"

"If you want..."

Before Silver could reply, Jim had lunged forward. The first blow caught him along the ribs, knuckles biting into his flesh. The next landed near his hip. Elbow. Collarbone. Chest. And then the boy’s fists were banging on his chest, on his heart, over and over. A sob escaped into the air, followed by a fist and then another, harder and harder. Silver tried to move, to push the boy aside, his sense of defence overriding his desire to give the boy what he felt he needed. Jim pulled back his arm and dipped it down, then up.

The blow cracked along Silver’s chin, sending him back in a stumble. He saw, dimly, as Jim’s brows knotted together, once, before a grim, mirthless smile spread out across his lips. He followed the cyborg’s stumble and hit him again, connecting again.

Silver reeled back and felt himself come against a table. He stood there, still, gazing at the boy. His jaw began to throb with a dull, unreal pain. The boy had hit below his cybernetic mechanism.

"There," he grunted, panting slightly. "Ye’ve hit me. D’ye feel better now...?"

Jim stared down at his fist, red and tight. He no longer seemed to see Silver, to realize where he was. He stumbled a bit, walking back towards the stairs. His voice drifted out, limp and lifeless.

"Yeah."
 
 

The groan of the boards alerted him to Silver’s presence. Tough canvas fabric pressed against his collarbone as he hunched further into himself, sitting with his legs hugged to his chest inside a longboat. Every part of him wanted to look up, to open his mouth and just say something, anything that would make the empty feeling inside of him go away. He merely closed his eyes, shielding himself from the sound of Silver’s voice, the weight of the arm he felt certain the cyborg would lay on his shoulder.

"Boy...?"

Tentative, quiet. It came from the entrance to the longboat bay. Jim shifted his shoulders, his arms rising to circle his knees and hide his face. The longboat creaked, rocking slightly as Silver stepped in. His peg rang hollow in Jim’s ears. A low grunt drifted out into the silence, the cyborg’s dark, looming bulk settling across from him, at a distance. Jim could see the peg leg, its main valve contracting and detracting, a simulation of breath and life.

Jim hugged his knees tightly. "Silver..." His voice sounded small, but he took a deep, steadying breath and continued. "You don’t know how much I want to hate you. I want you to be something ugly and a monster and I want you to just disappear and..." He pressed his face against his knees, the bones jutting into his cheeks. "But I just can’t. I can’t hate you..."

Silence. Jim began to fear Silver had not heard. The boards of the longboat stretched, creaking and popping, and the silence filtered out between them. Seconds spun out into minutes and seemed to stretch out into hours, whispering at the back of Jim’s head. Uncomfortable. He found himself wishing anything would break that silence. He looked up.

Silver held his gaze, steady. Jim saw no resentment on his face. He saw only understanding. Cold and clear. It almost made him angry. Understanding only made him look foolish, a little boy in front of an older, wiser man. A mountain of a man. Imperturbable. Jim bit at his lower lip, running his tongue over it once. It felt dry and chapped.

"Say something," he pleaded. "Anything..."

A gear in Silver’s cybernetic eyepiece clicked, followed by a low, rattling sigh. The cyborg’s shoulders sagged visibly, the stiff lines along his jaw relaxing.

"What d’ye want me t’say, pup?" he said. "It hurt, what ye did." His hand rose to trail under his chin. "Caught the right piece o’flesh t’pummel," he chuckled grimly. The hand dropped onto Silver’s lap. His good eye regarded Jim with steady patience. "But that ain’t what ye want t’hear, is it?"

The boy shook his head no, slowly. He sat in silence for a while, lost in thought. His fingers trailed over the toes of his boots. They came to rest over the flaps, nails hooking under the buckle. When he spoke, his voice was flat and emotionless.

"I want you to hit me back."

Silver’s eyebrows knotted together, his insides hollow. "Hey, now, boy," he said heavily. "What nonsense is this...?"

Jim rose to his feet, his hands slowly balling into fists at his sides. Anger and embarrassment and fear and determination ran across his face, and something else. Something intense and hidden. It frightened Silver. He wanted to reach out to the boy, to block out the sight of his eyes. Electric blue, hard. Silver rose to his feet in front of him, dwarfing him, casting a large, threatening shadow.

"No," he said quietly. "I won’t do that."

"Why not?" Jim shot back, his cheeks burning. "Are you scared? You can’t hurt me." The cyborg did not budge, and Jim stepped closer, chin thrust out. "You don’t have to be so damn careful with me!"

Silver’s mechanical eye flared to life, spiralling open to reveal the pinpoint of a laser, glowing red. "I’m not going t’do it," he growled, his voice low.

Jim pushed at his chest, hard, catching him off guard. Silver stumbled backwards, reaching out to steady himself, his mind beginning to cloud over. Jim saw it, and stepped closer, leaving no space between them. An odd hum had risen in his ears. Blood rushing to his head.

"Come on!" he heard himself shouting. "Just hit me back! You can’t hurt me!" Louder, desperate. "You’re not my father!"

A crack caught him on the side of his face, along his jaw, brief and blinding. The world seemed to yawn open, Silver standing at the end of a long tunnel, bathed in harsh red light. Jim felt, dimly, as his hand rose to cover the place where Silver had struck him. It burned.

Silver saw the boy stumble, and his muscles just seemed to give way. He sagged where he stood, taking one haltering step forward. His cyborg eye had swivelled almost shut, embarrassed. He saw his arm rise, realized that he had struck at the boy with his cyborg limb. A little gash ran along his jaw, pulsing red.

"Jimbo," he said haltingly. "Boy..."

Jim had stepped back, his hand held to his cheek. The look in his eyes made Silver’s heart ache. Satisfaction. The boy looked pleased, the confusion and anger from moments before gone. A grim smile rose to take their place, peeking out for a heartbeat before it too was gone and Jim had climbed out of the longboat.

He hovered by the long boat bay door. His lips moved, as if he meant to say something. Instead, he turned his head and gave Silver a faint, tentative smile. Silver didn’t have the heart to return it.

There were no signs on his cybernetic fist. No red splotches, no pinched, white skin, no burst veins. Only metal. Grey, inanimate. Silver ran his fingers over it. His eyes followed Jim’s easy, tired walk as the boy climbed the stairs, hands in his pockets. The gash on his jaw was all Silver could see. He let out a shuddering breath.

"Jim Hawkins," he murmured. "Old Silver has a great deal many things to make up for." He lowered his cyborg arm. It hung by his side, heavy and lifeless. "Too many things."
 
 
 
 
 
 

Author’s Note:

4 April 2003. The idea for this story grew out during LIS 249 lectures, but was beaten together while I rattled up and down on the No. 7 and F trains, heading to and from work. I was moving from Bayside to Briarwood on the week I started writing it, so it was eventually finished in the living room of my [currently] rather messy new apartment. The computer was hooked up temporarily and placed atop a coffee table, with me typing out on the floor. Very relaxing, actually, if none too good on the old lower back.

This story was meant to be a bit grim, a sort of preamble to the eventual rift between Jim and Silver once Treasure Planet is sighted. Oddly enough, it coincided with a forum discussion at the Benbow Inn Hearth Chat: "Could Silver have killed Jim?" I’m all for no, and I hope this story supports that stand.
 
 
 

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© 31 March-4 April 2003 Team Bonet. Treasure Planet is © 2002 The Walt Disney Co. The characters of Jim Hawkins and John Silver are © 1881 Robert Louis Stevenson.