Author's Note:

I would like to thank everybody who has read and reviewed! I really appreciate it, as those two things motivate me to keep writing. I always like to hear back from my readers, whether they have positive or negative things to say.

Continue to enjoy the story!

When James had first heard that he was going to be in Tortuga, recruiting a crew, the plan had practically formed itself.

The steps were simple enough. Arrive at the tavern. Sign on as a seaman. Meet the captain. Kill the captain.

Dear God, how wonderful that sounded. Perhaps he could finally be rid of the man who had so thoroughly trampled his life, despite fate conspiring against him these long months. Thus far it had seemed a cruel irony that he, James Norrington, a previously moral man in every way, had been faced with such hardships while his adversary, the antithesis of a moral man, dodged disaster at every turn. Whatever calamities had befallen the former commodore, they had first sailed quite harmlessly past that pirate bastard. Even the hangman's noose was no match for him, as he and that insolent blacksmith Turner had proved so theatrically the day that James's world had begun to unravel. But that was about to change.

This time, James had every intention of bypassing the hangman entirely. He wanted Jack Sparrow to die by his own hand.

The very thought of it filled him with a sort of savage glee as he swigged from a rum bottle, carefully regarding the facade of the Twelve Daggers while the massive drunken brawl that was Tortuga raged around him. He had been wallowing in this festering hellhole for two months now and had discovered that two months spent here could effect more change in a man than a lifetime spent elsewhere. He attributed it to the concentrated atmosphere, an odious bouquet of fermenting liquor, tobacco, and excrement, a caustic vapor that would burn you away into a shell of your former self. That was, after all, what he was now: nothing but a living, breathing remnant of an officer in the Royal Navy. He knew that he was a remnant because the whole man would have never supported a plan that so blatantly circumvented due process. Commodore Norrington wouldn't have dreamed of shooting a man, pirate or otherwise, in cold blood. He was, after all, servant to the law. Mister James Norrington, on the other hand, thought that a fat lot of good the law had done last time. As the wise man once said, if you wanted something done right, you did it yourself.

He emptied the rum bottle with a grimace and dropped it in the mud, leaning more heavily against the ancient wooden beam that supported the balcony of a shabby inn. Another fight had broken out on the street in front of him and as he watched, it grew with a life of its own, men and objects flying about in it like flotsam and jetsam in a waterspout. Two sailors that he didn't know crowded past, the nearest one treating him to a merciless shove that sent him tumbling gracelessly into the mud. His assailant and companion both broke into an inebriated fit of stupid laughter before being sucked into the maelstrom, immediately coming to blows with two sailors he did know. His mind, dulled with alcohol, struggled momentarily to place them, and then he realized– they were from the Pearl. For an instant he battled with the urge to jump in and fight them himself, to unload months' worth of frustration upon their heads in the form of unfettered violence. The desperation and drunkenness into which he had fallen here in Tortuga had melded with his already-formidable combat skills to forge him into quite the capable barroom brawler. The rum he had just finished was going to his head, and he was growing more and more certain that he could easily dispatch the two members of Sparrow's crew...

"What you doin' out here all by your lonesome, love?"

He tore his eyes away from the pair of pirates to look in the direction of the voice, a saucy soprano, and found that its source, a tall, blonde, and rather busty strumpet, was standing over him, hands poised on her hips. He cast a glance from side to side, discovering that in the course of the ruckus he had been left as the sole loiterer, before stumbling to his feet to resume his post against the wooden beam. The strumpet shot him a coquettish smile, and he vaguely recalled being propositioned by her before– Giselle, he thought her name was– but that had been nearly two months ago, before he had become a remnant. For a moment he wondered if she even knew he was the same man. He doubted it.

She placed a hand on his chest and pushed him back against the beam, leaning into him. "Looks like you could use some comp'ny," she teased.

When he had first arrived on this God-forsaken island, the ladies had paid him special attention. It was easy, he supposed, to turn a profit on former Navy men who had come to sample the most illicit of wares that Tortuga offered. But he was here for a different reason, and the women after his coin had soon discovered that they could get none out of him. It wasn't that he didn't want to... He was quite sure that a lack of lust or desire was not the problem, a fact which was becoming almost painfully apparent as Giselle raked a finger along the line of his jaw. No, the fact remained that he was still paying for his sins, of which he had many, and it seemed only right that he continue alone in his misery. He still had some scrap of honor left, enough to know that penance was worthless without some degree of pain. Thus he had turned Tortuga into his own private purgatory, and in his mind it rather defeated the purpose to share it, even in an act of meaningless debauchery with a woman he didn't even know.

But damn if it wasn't getting harder to refuse.

Giselle, growing impatient, drew even closer, and he could feel her twining the strands of his ponytail around her fingers. "So what'll it be, love?" she pressed. Her nose was nearly touching his...

That was when he saw it, over her left shoulder, and was reminded that he had come here for much more important reasons. The fight had careened off down the street, leaving the thoroughfare mostly clear save for a few drunken stragglers. Across the way, a relatively sober man was making his way through the lamp and torchlight towards the doorway of the Twelve Daggers. James would have known that figure anywhere, the stocky build and scowling, mutton-chopped face: Joshamee Gibbs. As he watched Gibbs ascend the narrow stoop that led into the tavern, he contemplated in fascination that the two of them had ever served together in the Navy, let alone on the same ship. And now here he was, former captain, former commodore, little better than a pirate himself, prepared to join the crew of the Pearl, upon which Gibbs was first mate. The irony in that was almost enough to make him laugh.

He roughly pushed Giselle aside and strode unsteadily towards the entrance, listening as the harlot hurled curses at his turned back. Her voice was lost in the din of conversation and high notes of an Irish jig as he pushed open the heavy wooden door that led into the Twelve Daggers. Inside, though voices were loud and the music was louder, the atmosphere was generally more civil than that of the street. Of course there were still drunkards and tarts about, but no fight was raging, and most of the patrons were enjoying themselves in a practically polite manner by Tortuga's standards. He watched the broad shoulders of Gibbs push through the throng before the man seated himself alone at a table under the mezzanine, quill, inkwell, and parchment in front of him.

James took up a spot next to the wall that afforded him an open view of the room, watching as Tortuga's finest began to line up in front of the first mate to sign the roster. Had he been sober, he might have supposed it odd that the Pearl was taking on such an infirm lot, but instead that thought never crossed him as he scanned through the crowd, a single purpose in mind. It didn't take him long to find what he was looking for.

In the corner behind Gibbs, half-hidden behind a collection of palm leaves, sat Captain Jack Sparrow, reclining with his boots propped on a table while he furiously shook his compass as though it were a tambourine. No wonder it was broken.

James felt something inside him coil with hatred. It would have been so easy to simply walk across the room and shoot the man. Too easy, in fact. It would have been over in an instant, no time for Sparrow to even know what had happened, and it was a very poor act of vengeance that didn't dole out some small measure of suffering. He wanted Sparrow to realize the situation, wanted him to know that James Norrington, the man whose life he had stolen, had come to repay the favor. He wanted Sparrow to try to worm his way out of it, a tactic that the pirate had used to practically legendary success countless times before. And he wanted to see Sparrow come to the catastrophic conclusion that nothing could be done: his crimes had finally caught up to him in the form of a bullet fired from a former commodore's pistol.

Captain Jack Sparrow had put on quite a show the day he had initiated the downfall of Commodore Norrington, and now James had decided that nothing less in return would suffice.

He let the rage inside him continue to build as he watched the last man in a queue of four shamble away from the table. Only then did he begin to move slowly forward, nudging aside patrons until he reached the epicenter of the tavern, and as he approached he heard Gibbs speak to Jack.

"Including those four, that gives us– four!"

Gibbs turned back round in his seat as James stopped before him. The first mate folded his hands on the table and smiled up at the next in line. "And what's your story?" he asked genially, not a flicker of recognition crossing his face. James felt another wave of ire rising in his chest. He had spent the better part of a year hunting this man and his associates through the Caribbean, across the Atlantic, to the Mediterranean, and before that had served side by side with him aboard the Dauntless– granted, that had been years ago– and Gibbs couldn't even be troubled to remember him? Good God, was he really that unimportant? Or had Tortuga altered him even more than he had realized?

"My story," repeated James slowly, his voice low and dangerous, "It's exactly the same as your story only one chapter behind." The smile vanished from Gibbs's face, and he pushed on. "I chased a man across the Seven Seas. The pursuit cost me my crew, my commission, and my life." The words wavered with a seething hatred, and when he finished he defiantly snatched the bottle of liquor that sat next to the roster and took a bitter swig.

Gibbs, open-mouthed, squinted at the rum-soaked vagrant before realization flooded over him. "Commodore?" he ventured in a half-whisper laced with both incredulity and shock.

The use of his title was salt on an open wound.

"No, not anymore! Weren't you listening?" James snapped, feeling his jaw clench. He placed a hand against the table and leaned towards Gibbs, uncurling one finger from the neck of the rum bottle to point threateningly. "I nearly had you all off Tripoli," he sneered, unable to keep the heartbreak from his voice. Memories of the Dauntless breaking up in the Mediterranean swells amidst the cries of his drowning men flashed through his mind. "I would have! If not for that... hurricane..."

"Lord!" exclaimed Gibbs, "You didn't try to sail through it?"

Of course I did, you dullard– do you think I would bloody well be here if I hadn't?

That was his gut's immediate response, but his tongue bit it back. Instead he just peered more intently at Gibbs, eyes burning.

"So do I make your crew... or not?" he questioned simply. From the edge of his vision he saw that Sparrow had moved, and was now attempting to slip away unnoticed, palm frond in hand.

Immediately in front of him, the first mate was showing indecision, obviously reluctant to hire on a murderous former hunter of pirates. Gibbs opened his mouth to speak, but James cut him off.

"You haven't said where you're going," he stated softly, vaguely aware that Sparrow had circled around to the other side of the table and was now making for the door. He felt something inside him snap. "Somewhere nice?" he suddenly shouted, grabbing the underside of the table and easily overturning it. Gibbs went flying backwards in a chorus of cries from the crowd as the music screeched to a halt and James, seizing the moment, whirled around and spread his arms, rum bottle in hand.

"So am I worthy to serve under Captain Jack Sparrow?" he loudly drawled, treating the stunned patrons as an audience and scowling at them. He caught a flicker of movement and a glint of leafy green somewhere to his right and rear, and in one deft movement he pulled his pistol from within his ragged coat, reeled around, and leveled the barrel at the head of the man behind him. "Or should I just kill you now?"

Jack Sparrow stared back through palm fronds, from around the edge of a heavy wooden beam.

The savage glee from earlier hit James again as he held a bead on the pirate, who leaned first to one side of the beam and then back again. After a moment a forced smiled crossed Sparrow's face and James knew that he was preparing to talk his way out of death.

"You're hired!" exclaimed Jack merrily, raising the palm leaf like a scepter as though his proclamation had mended all wounds.

James wanted to laugh, but instead he forced it back, his features twisting into a mirthless smirk. "Sorry," he began, finger tightening on the trigger, "Old habits and all that..."

He would have fired right then and there if he hadn't seen her. There, just behind Jack, was Elizabeth. Her hair was short and tucked under a tricorne cap, and her attire was that of a man's, but he would have known her face anywhere. How could he forget it? But it couldn't be... could it? No, it simply couldn't. Bloody hell, if this was the rum, then he needed to drink none at all, or much, much more...

He hesitated.

It was just for an instant, but in that instant he heard a cry of "Easy sir!" and felt his right arm seized, pushed towards the ceiling, as his other shoulder was grabbed from behind. He fought back against his two assailants and then he heard the gunshot, felt the recoil of the pistol in his hand.

Chaos erupted in the Twelve Daggers. The band began to play even louder and faster than before, the jaunty music setting the pace for the punches starting to be thrown. A man rushed forward and James kicked him backwards, watching as Gibbs scurried up from the floor and darted after Jack. The two of them disappeared into the crowd and James started to follow, putting away his now-useless pistol, but a pair of louts stood in his path with their swords drawn. In an instant his own cutlass was in hand and he crossed their blades with the intention of fighting through them, but another swordsman had appeared and he was forced to back against one of the thick wooden beams to avoid an attack from the rear. The entirety of the brawl was beginning to form a circle around him, threatening to press in on all sides.

Suddenly a boyish figure darted out of the crowd and stopped behind him, drawing a blade and fighting back to back with him. The adrenaline of the battle had momentarily driven Sparrow from his mind and he drove on furiously at the men trying to get at him, every so often taking a swig from the bottle in his hand. Even as a staggering drunk he was a better swordsman than this whole lot combined, he thought morosely as an errant blow shattered the bottle. He sent the offender flying back into a table before, unperturbed, stumbling backwards and relieving a fellow drunkard of another canteen of rum. Gratefully he gulped at it, the alcohol burning pleasantly on its way down, as he pressed his back to the beam, brandishing his cutlass at another wave of attackers who, seeing the two unconscious men at their feet, were not so ready to rush forward.

"Come on, then! Who wants some?" he taunted, yelling at the top of his lungs to make himself heard over the tumult that still raged, "Form an orderly line and I'll have you all one by one!" They didn't move, and he went on, "Come on! Who's first?"

He was vaguely aware of movement behind him and he began to turn, but before he knew it the bottle in his left hand was wrenched away, and he heard glass breaking. It sounded very, very close.

And in that instant, the Twelve Daggers faded to black.