A/N: Ahh, back for another Pirates one-shot. At least the recommended listening comes from the Pirates soundtrack this time: "What Shall We Die For?" from the Pirates 3 soundtrack.
Like a killer whale in pursuit of a seal, the coral-encrusted hull of the Flying Dutchman burst from the otherwise-tranquil ocean waters, slamming down upon the sea with a heavy salt-spray that partially-concealed the vessel again. As the spray cleared, the phantom ship began to heave forward, on direct course for the Black Pearl.
Standing on the foredeck of the Endeavour, Beckett smiled coldly as he watched the Dutchman close with the Pearl. "Ah, so she survived," he said calmly.
Aboard the Pearl, the crew stared in horror at the dreadnought sailing toward them, fearing at any second that the tri-barreled bow chaser cannons would open fire and shred the already-battered Pearl, sending her back to the depths for a second time, only this time with full crew aboard. Barbossa, however, ever suspicious, lifted his looking glass and stared at the Dutchman. There was something happening on the deck...
Indeed, a strange occurrence was taking place upon the deck of the Flying Dutchman. Coral fragments, the blade-noses of sawfish, and various other sea flora and fauna were falling to the deck in record number, fleeing the forms of the Dutchman's crew as the curse of Davey Jones likewise fled them. In the front of the assembly, 'Bootstrap' Bill Turner pulled away the sea star that had been growing on his head as a symbiote for years he could no longer count, then looked ahead toward the figure standing at the wheel of the ship.
None other than Will Turner himself stood with his hands possessively grasping the ship's wheel, looking none the worse for wear for the ordeal he had just been through, save the angry scar that carved across his chest where his heart had been cut out to replace that of Davey Jones. Will Turner was now in command of the Flying Dutchman.
Taking his eyes from the ever-closing Pearl, he turned his eyes toward the crew, now human again. They were Jones' crew, not his, and he expected no loyalty from them. His promise of freedom had been made to his father, but he saw fit now to extend that offer to the rest of the crew.
"Men, you have been freed of the debt you owed to Davey Jones, to serve for eternity aboard the Dutchman," he called out, loudly enough so that the silenced crew could hear him easily. "What you do now is up to each man of you. Whether you wish to return to the world of the living, or be ferried to your final rest, the decision is yours alone to make!"
The man who stepped forward to answer him was not easily identified to Will. It was not until he spoke that the Dutchman's captain recognized the voice; the man before him was Maccus, Jones' former first mate, the man who had been half a hammerhead shark before Jones' death. "Captain Turner, you've freed us from Jones' curse and given us the opportunity to return to our lives. That in itself is a heavy debt, and one that I dare say all of us feel obliged to repay."
"If you feel a debt owed to me, then know that I will not bind you to this ship for the rest of your days," Will replied without missing a beat. "Every man among you is free to leave the ship at any time you wish. Never again will a soul be lost to the Flying Dutchman."
Grinning a grin that was almost a perfect reproduction of his shark's-tooth grin, Maccus then turned to face the rest of the crew. "What are ye standin' around for, ye scurvy bilge rats!" he shouted. "Take your stations, all of ye! Trim the sails! Run out the starboard guns! Make good of yourselves, boys, it's time to show those dogs why the Dutchman and her captain rule the seas!"
The crew sprang to life, setting to following Maccus' orders. An unintelligible blur of shouts and exclamations filled the deck of the ship. Bootstrap was the only one who didn't immediately leap into motion, stepping forward to stand beside his son at the wheel of the ship.
"I'm proud of you, son," he said after a few moments of awkward silence.
"You're freed of your debt to Jones," Will said. "You need not remain on this ship any longer."
Bootstrap grinned at his son. "The way I figure it, there's still a debt for me to be paid," he answered. "If you'll have me, that is."
Will smiled in return, and stepped away from the wheel, toward the starboard railing. "Take the wheel then, Mister Turner," he ordered.
"Aye, aye, Captain Turner," Bootstrap answered, stepping up to the wheel. "Orders, Captain Turner?"
A knowing smile from Will was his only answer.
Across the sea, Barbossa smiled as he collapsed the looking glass. "A mighty fine gambit you pulled off, young Mister Turner," he said to himself.
"Captain!" Gibbs called up from the main deck. "The Dutchman's running out her guns!"
"It's Will!" Elizabeth shrieked, pointing toward the distant ship.
"Aye!" Barbossa confirmed. "Run out the port guns! Take us hard to starboard! Full sail! Make ready for a grand showing, boys!"
"Hard to port!" Will shouted to his crew. "Make ready the guns! Hold until I give the command!"
"Jimmylegs!" Bootstrap shouted over the wheel. "Hoist our colors!"
From the deck below, Will heard a voice, calling out in song, a song that soon swept up the Dutchman's entire crew:
Yo, ho, all together!
Hoist the colors high!
Heave, ho, thieves and beggars,
Ne'er say we die!
The Dutchman's boatswain, a man who once would have flayed Will's flesh from his bones with the strike of a whip, laughed and signaled to two other crewmen to assist him. Mere moments later, flapping proudly in the wind above the crow's nest, the Dutchman's own Jolly Roger, a stylized skull with a sword and pistol crossed beneath it, signaled the shift in allegiance of the Flying Dutchman to the side of the Brethren of the Coast..
Almost as one, the Black Pearl and the Flying Dutchman, the two fastest and most powerful ships on the high seas, turned in the same direction, to face the oncoming Endeavour. Behind the pirate ships, the crews of the assembled pirate armada let out a mighty cry that shook the very seas and filled the sails of the flagships, pushing them forward to meet the Endeavour, now beyond the point at which it could turn to avoid passing between them.
With his right boot planted on the railing, leaning forward to rest his elbow on his knee, Will smiled coldly toward the foredeck of the Endeavour, where he could just barely make out a spot of color that was Lord Cutler Beckett.
"Nothing personal, Mister Beckett," he said quietly. "It's just good business."