[He's been staring and prodding at the terminal for the longest time, wanting to at least have a basic grasp of its function before fiddling too much with it, though as of right this moment, Barbossa will fully admit (privately) that he really doesn't understand it. Witchery, devilry, some sort of voodoo...He's not entirely sure, and really, given the circumstances, he doesn't really care. What matters is that he's pretty sure it's for communication. And communicate he will.
There are far more important things afoot, thanks to the letter he's tucked haphazardly into the sash around his waist, because in it, the worst is delivered. He cares not for the world, but his ship...That's enough to make his blood boil.
But none of that shows on his face - for now. He's already raged privately, before deciding it is, plainly and simply, false. Instead, he looks more than a little amused at the circumstances, as he taps thoughtfully at the screen with one long, black nail.]
So, it do seem me home managed to get itself blown apart like a dinghy hit with chain shot. Funny, that. [He doesn't believe a word of it, and it's evident in his tone, and the quirk of his mouth.] Ye'd figure there'd be a tad more warning. Trumpets. Horsemen. Jack Sparrow running away from the scene of the crime. Alas, can't say as I remember a speck of any of that.
So what be the truth of it, aye? Did our saviors rapture us from our dying homes, convinced of our purity and contriteness? Be we the lambs before the slaughter? [Hilarious.] Nay, there be more to it than that. And since it seems ye have me at a disadvantage, I'd be thankful for some...Insight.