One by one, the flickering lanterns adorning the Pearl quivered into blackness. The Black Pearl sunk into the arcane night, mysterious and Delphic. 

Joanna's heart was as dark as the ship. "You've sent him to his death," she whispered. In the eerie night, it felt indecorous to speak in anything but murmurs.

"No, I haven't," Jack muttered in return. His right eye pressed to his spyglass, his left screwed shut in concentration, he barely looked at her. "You don't know that."

Breathe. Joanna breathed. She clenched her fists, felt nails in her palms. She bit the inside of her cheek until copper flooded her mouth. 

"You do," Joanna replied evenly. "You know."

Jack did not respond. 

"I can't believe you'd --" Joanna bit back her words. "I cannot believe I'm standing next to you right now."

"Then don't," Jack suggested lightly. 

Joanna saw red. She made a fist and squared herself to Jack's side, preparing to punch a hole straight through his brilliant brain -- Jack even took several startled steps backward in alarm. But before Joanna could execute her assault, the ship suddenly became awash with murmurs. She unclenched her fingers and set her gaze on the distant wreck, her mouth dropping open in dismay.

The alabaster moonlight illuminated a ghostly ship, emerging from the water with the grace of a goddess. 

"Holy shit," Joanna whispered, going pale. "Holy...shit."

At her side, Jack's shoulders loosened. "There she is," he murmured. 

"Cap'n -- Jack." Gibbs popped into existence at Jack's side, brow furrowed. "Jack, the crew --"

"What's left," Jack caviled shortly. He shifted to look over his shoulder, eyes glancing off each petrified pirate. Ragetti was unashamedly cowering at Pintel's back. "Steady, men," Jack's order was assured and quiet. His confidence swept over them in a warm wave, settling quavering hearts.

Joanna raged at his easy command in a time when she felt so out of control.

The Pearls were silent with anticipation, eyes glued to Jack's defiant back as he tempted death itself. Joanna was no exception. Burning with anger, she nevertheless gave Jack her rapt attention. 

"May I see?" She asked meekly. 

Jack handed off the spyglass without comment. Joanna felt his heavy gaze as she took it and pressed it to her left eye, scrutinizing the spooky ship lying in the distance. 

The Flying Dutchman was a behemoth of a vessel; an image of eerie beauty. It was draped with moss and slime as if it had been plucked from the darkest pit of the seafloor. Incredible carvings circled the cannon ports. The bow of the ship appeared as a gaping, tooth-filled maw.

But what truly sent shudders up and down Joanna's spine was the unnatural crewmen, heaping piles of seaweed and seagrass and sludge. There was no mistaking Davy Jones among them -- tall and lurching, with the dreadful face of a squid. Even through the foggy lens of the spyglass, Joanna observed his beard of tentacles writhing as he stalked the mucilaginous deck. 

But most important of all, Joanna couldn't see Will. 

Joanna recoiled slightly as she lowered the spyglass. Somehow, this was more unsettling than a crew of undead, decaying mutineers. She offered the spyglass to Gibbs; white-faced, he refused with a shake of his head. Joanna moodily extended the miniature telescope to Jack without a word. He resumed the task of lookout. 

"Huh," Jack said after a few minutes.

"What?" Joanna and Gibbs demanded in clipped whispers. 

"He's lookin' at me," Jack said with muted surprise. He ambled uneasily backward. 

"...That's probably not good?" Gibbs hazarded a guess, joining Jack in instinctually backing away. 

Joanna spun to face Jack, prepared to demand a second boat be lowered so she could join Will. She was sick of standing around. Her angry eyes met Jack's fraught ones, briefly, before her vision was obscured by the bulbous, miry back of Davy Jones' head. 

Joanna's scream was muffled by a wet hand sliding over her parted lips. Her shriek died into frightened, harsh breaths as she was yanked into someone's knobbly chest. Throwing her head around in consternation, she sighted the source of those protrusions -- a splintered ship's wheel, impaled grotesquely through the shoulder and chest of her captor.

Her crewmates shared similar fates, held captive by personified aquarium decorations. Joanna's gaze fluttered in panicked circles around the deck, counting the number of knives teasing her friends' throats. 

Jack faced the most terrifying specter of all. "Oh," he asserted, wide eyes fixed on Davy Jones' monstrous mien. 

"You have a debt to pay-ah." With a thick and nasally Scottish accent, Jones spat the words as if it was an offense to speak them. He advanced on Jack with the stalking gait of a predator; Jack scrambled backward, clutching the spyglass between white-knuckled fingers. "Ye've been captain of the Black Pearl for thirteen years. That was our agreement."

Debt? Jack had something along those lines to Will not long ago in a flippant farewell. Joanna searched her memories of Jack, but he had never mentioned something as important as a debt to Davy Jones. This was the reason for the black spot -- the origin of the "long story".

Jack raised a finger. "Technically," he spouted hopefully, "I was only a captain for two years before I was viciously mutinied upon."

"Then ye were a poor captain, but a captain nonetheless!" Davy Jones sneered. His snarl became visible as the Dutchman gripping Joanna skirted around the deck, as eager to see his captain in top form as Joanna was. With grisly fascination, Joanna watched the contortions of Jones' cephalopod face. "Have ye not introduced yourself all these years as 'Captain Jack Sparrow?" Jones whirled to face his crew, barking a cruel laugh. They joined him gleefully; the man holding Joanna coughed a laugh of seawater and phlegm. She grimaced in revulsion.

"Yeah..." Jack wore a rare mask of ignominy. This faded quickly, though, to be replaced by familiar cunning. "I gave you payment -- one soul to serve your ship's already over there." He flailed toward the Dutchman. 

Jones raised his chin. With scorn, he declared, "One soul is not equal to another."

"Aha!" Jack's eyes glimmered. "So we've established my proposal's sound in principle, now we're just haggling over price!"

The entire deck seemed to take a breath. Jones paused, popping his lips as he considered Jack and his Cheshire grin. "Price?"

Jack slithered closer to Jones, lowering his chin. Slyly, he asked, "Jus' how many souls d'you think mine is worth?"

Joanna's jaw dropped in abhorrent admiration for Jack's cleverness. 

Davy Jones, too, seemed impressed by Jack's wiles. After a moment of thought, he smiled unpleasantly. "One-hundred souls," he drawled. His eyes narrowed. "Three days-ah."

Jack spread his hands cheerily, swaying with victory. "You're a diamond, mate. Send me back the boy --" Joanna's heart leaped "-- and I'll get started right off." Jack twirled and sauntered away from Jones, a manifestation of his intentions to get working, but was halted swiftly by the literally shark-like first mate of the Dutchman. 

"I keep the boy," Jones shut down dismissively. Joanna's heart sank as easily as it had jumped with hope. "A good faith payment. That leaves you only ninety-nine more to go!" He cackled the laugh of a man who had forgotten how. 

Joanna watched Jack desperately, winding her hands together where they were clamped behind her back. Jack's face seemed to twitch in displeasure, but he pressed doggedly on. "Have you met Will Turner?" Jack asked Jones, switching tactics to adopt the guise of a salesman. "He's noble, heroic, a terrific soprano. Worth at least four." Jack waggled his fingers in the air. "Maybe three an' a half."

Joanna lowered her eyes. Will was worth five, six, seven souls. Maybe even one hundred. 

"An' did I mention..." Joanna looked up as the tone of Jack's voice slipped into something more cajoling, more intimate. "He's in love. With a girl. Due to be married! Betrothed." Like a hawk, Jack circled Davy Jones, whose expression wavered with reluctant misery. "Dividing him from her and her from him would only be half as cruel as actually allowing them to join in holy matrimony." Jack hovered over Jones' shoulder hopefully. "Eh?"

Jones' far-off gazed snapped back to reality almost audibly. "I keep the boy," he repeated. "Ninety-nine souls-ah." 

Do you regret it? Joanna wondered, tracking the way Jack's expression sank. Or do you regret that I'll kill you before you pay your dues?

Davy Jones turned abruptly to face Jack, his foot thumping oddly. A glance downward and Joanna's jaw dropped -- his second leg was that of a crustacean. "But I wonder, Sparrah, can ye live with this? Can ye condemn an innocent man -- a friend -- to a lifeline of servitude in your name while you roam free?" Jones cocked his head. The slap of his tentacles was audible as he shifted. 

A cloud passed over Jack's face, but only briefly. "Yep!" He chirped, but Joanna saw culpability in his eyes. "I'm good with it. Shall we seal it in blood? I mean, er, ink?" 

Jack's playful witticisms ended as Jones roughly seized his hand. Goo squelched as Jones' winding tentacle of a forefinger squirmed around Jack's palm, creeping threateningly up his sleeve. His other hand -- claw -- clacked threateningly at his side.

Jack said in mortified horror, "Ah."

Jones' gaze was made of deadly steel. "Three days-ah," he pronounced, almost in a whisper. With a jerk, he extracted his sinuous appendage from Jack's hand. 

When Jones left the ship, he strode past Joanna. She trembled as she watched him go, hardly aware of the Dutchman releasing her numb arms, hissing three days into her ear. Joanna felt death as Davy Jones crossed her path. 

"Uh," said Jack. He was staring at his left hand, riveted by the slime and lack of a black spot. "Uh, Mr. Gibbs?"

Gibbs plodded to Jack's side, looking bloodless but resilient. "Aye."

Jack swallowed. He looked past his open palm to the grim horizon, where the Flying Dutchman did not float. "I feel sullied an' unusual."

Gibbs nodded sagaciously. "An' how do we intend to harvest these ninety-nine souls in three days?"

"Fortunately..." Jack blinked and turned to Gibbs. Without asking, he began wiping Jones' leftover sludge onto Gibbs' tattered waistcoat. Gibbs endured this with long-suffering patience. "He was mum as the condition these souls need be." 

"Ah." Gibbs eyed the new, slick spot on his vest with distaste. "Tortuga."

Jack's face hardened with recognition of a goal. "Tortuga."

Joanna's eyes were glued to the space Davy Jones had occupied. He had vanished into thin air, leaving nothing but a pool of salty water. He had disappeared and taken Will Turner with him. 

Never again, Joanna realized. I'll never see Will again.

Will had fought for Joanna to take the compass, to return to Port Royal, to accept the boon of freedom, so Joanna would not die; so Joanna would not be bound to the ocean the rest of her life; so Joanna could park in Port Royal and say hello more than once every few years. 

And yet Will was the one being ripped away. Will would die imprisoned, Will would be bound, Will would not touch land for untold years. After striving so ardently to save her, he would be lost.  

Vividly, Joanna recalled quietly saying: you've sent him to his death. 

Vividly, Joanna recalled severely promising: any harm done to Will by your hand will be reciprocated. Double. 

"Jack Sparrow."

Something must have been in Joanna's voice, for the attention of every pirate on deck flew to her. Particularly Jack's, whose name she had called. His jaw tightened as they locked eyes. 

Joanna's hands shook. She clenched her fists to hide this and raised her chin. "I challenge you to a duel."

The deck went utterly silent. Even the Pearl seemed shocked -- the gentle creaking of her bones ceased as Joanna's declaration swept over those present. 

"I accept," said Jack, his jaw tight.

Joanna had never done this before -- dueling was a barbaric practice of men. She visibly hesitated, hands wavering at her sides. 

"But I get Gibbs as my second," Jack said quickly. 

Seconds! Joanna had forgotten that part. "What? No," she threw back, eyes narrowing. "I challenged you. I want Gibbs."

"Nuh-uh!" Jack argued. He stabbed his pointer finger at her. "You challenged me, so's only polite I get first pick."

"Polite?" Joanna's voice went shrill. "You wanna talk about being polite?"

"STOW IT!" The exclamation exploded from Gibbs. Miffed, he glared between Joanna and Jack. "I'll be nobody's second, thank ye very much."

Jack faltered. "Well...fair. But then who --"

"I'll be my second," Joanna announced curtly. 

"You can't do that!"

"Can!" 

Jack folded his arms petulantly. "Then I'm my second."

"Fine." Joanna growled, so hot with anger she could practically feel steam hissing from her ears. She quit grinding her teeth and blinked. "Um. What now?"

...

Joanna's actions caught up to her the next morning, staring at the pistol Jack was pressing into her hand. 

"That's mine," Lejon said in surprise, watching the exchange. 

"Yeah," Jack agreed blithely. He was guileless and coatless -- "Don't wanna get blood on it," he'd announced (Joanna had angrily taken her coat off the next second, unwilling to be outdone). "When this's over, you can have it back." He pegged Joanna with an ironic smile, raising an eyebrow. "What're the stakes, dear?"

As seconds, Joanna and Jack shared the duty of negotiating terms between their principals; if they were lucky, they would negotiate a ceasefire and neither principal would be harmed. However, being both principal and second, Joanna found her desire to avoid bloodshed greatly lessened.

"It's death," Joanna answered flatly, hoping her crushing grip around the pistol didn't betray her fear. She met Jack's eyes with the coldest stare she could manage. "I'm going to kill you."

Jack frowned. His fingers wavered through the air, toward her; hesitantly, they dropped. "'M wondering if this's an overreaction, luv." 

"It's not." She was glad Jack had not touched her, for she wasn't sure what she would have done if he had. "If you'll recall, I promised that -- and I will quote myself -- 'any harm done to Will by your hand will be reciprocated. Double.' And you've killed Will." She swallowed, shaken to hear it spoken aloud. "So. It's your turn."

Jack was a terrible friend, but he was a friend, nonetheless -- he looked as though he'd eaten a lemon, sour from confronting his guilt. "Can't argue with that," he said, dully resigned. With a twirl, he gave Joanna his back. "Ten paces?"

"...Ten paces," Joanna echoed, stunned. She turned, too; slowly, astounded that she was about to duel Captain Jack Sparrow. 

Gibbs had declined to be either of their seconds, weary of being fought over like the last bottle of rum, but he had acquiesced to acting as a neutral third party. When Joanna turned, he said: "You may begin."

"One," murmured Jack over Joanna's shoulder, taking his first step. He continued to count idly. As the scores increased, so did the shaking of Joanna's hands. 

Two, Joanna thought, stepping again. She fixed her gaze on the dueling ground -- the Pearl's scrubbed deck, shining cock-a-hoop in the morning sun. She wished they had dueled in the murky darkness of the previous night, when her anger was fresh and the weather matched her mood. But the powder had been wet from rain and the sky too dark to take aim. 

(Joanna had slept poorly in a silent cabin, bereft of Anamaria's snores.)

Three. Joanna was, by all accounts, a terrible shot. Jack, the very opposite, had tried to teach her, but Joanna simply didn't like guns. She hated the loud pop! and the plume of smoke that came from pressing the trigger. Give her a sword instead. 

Four. Five. Should I shoot? Joanna was wracked by second thoughts, eyes glued to the barrel of the gun. Of course I'll shoot. She set her jaw. I've promised to shoot. I'll avenge Will. 

Six. There was the matter of the onlookers. Joanna spared them a glance -- Gibbs, brow furrowed in disapproval; Pintel and Ragetti, biting their nails in similar anxiety; Lejon, tracking the path of his pistol; Marty, perched on the capstan and looking eager; Ho-Kwan, staring with narrow, critical eyes at Joanna, who he had never liked.

I'll never be called the captain's woman after this, Joanna realized with bitter mirth. She reaffirmed her resolve to shoot. 

Seven. Eight. Will Jack shoot? Joanna wondered next. He had no love for dueling. But Jack Sparrow never backed down from a challenge. 

Nine. Joanna cocked the gun. 

Ten. Turn, face your opponent. 

Joanna and Jack scrutinized each other across the chasm between them. Joanna wondered if his mind raced with the same ragged thoughts as hers. 

Usually, the signal to shoot was represented by dropping a handkerchief. Gibbs had no handkerchief, so he held his waistcoat. Joanna saw it fall from the corner of her eye -- a flutter of moth-eaten blue. 

She raised the gun, thinking furiously. My hands won't stop shaking, I'm a rotten shot, there is no way I'll hit anywhere near him -- and then Joanna's sweaty hand slipped on the grip. Her finger caught the trigger -- she fired. 

The bang frightened her. She jumped and nearly dropped the gun, stumbling breathlessly on her own feet. Dreading what she would see, her eyes flew to Jack. Her gaze found, instead, the mouth of a pistol. 

Crack!