AN: Yay, a longer chapter! Sorry this took so long to get to you and that I wasn't able to thank each person for their review... life has been a wee bit crazy but from now on I will reply! Please let me know what you think of the chapter. I can't wait to hear what you think about Jack and Beckett getting their "marks." :) Please, please, please review!

An Act of Piracy

Chapter Five

They were lead to the prison where they were divided into two cells. All except for Jack, who Beckett gestured to follow him. The guard behind Jack prodded him into walking, following the prissy man from the dungeon-like prison to a much nicer room a floor up. The room which Jack was led into seemed to be an office of some sorts; Beckett's office, judging by the maps and books which seemed to pay homage to everything involving the East India Trading Company. Against the far wall, despite the warm weather, there was a fire blazing out of the fireplace. The effect was stifling to say the least.

Once inside completely, Beckett gestured to the chains which held Jack's arms.

"Those are no longer necessary," he said, and the guard removed them. Jack wiggled his fingers and rubbed his wrists, watching as Beckett crossed over to the fireplace. The guard remained by the door, watching Jack with shrewd eyes. As for Jack, he was watching Beckett with growing distrust, not sure what to expect from the man who was currently leaning into the mantle place.

I believe," Beckett started, watching the flames flicker inside the grate of the fire, "That it is very important to know one's place in this world."

Jack rolled his eyes. He was growing tired of this speech.

"Our place in this world is molded by the decisions we make," Beckett continued. He spoke this part into the fire, and Jack couldn't help but feel a chill sweep over him, though he didn't understand it. "You made your decision, Jack, when you stole the slaves and freed them. It was an act of piracy..." here he held up a small metal rod, with a 'P' on the end. It was a brand. Jack's heart sped up and suddenly he understood the feeling that had seemed so irrational only a second before, "…And should be treated accordingly."

Swallowing, Jack remembered Tia Dalma tracing the 'P' on his forearm. Before he could move, the guard had grabbed him and was yanking him forward, holding him tightly.

"Let's talk about this mate," Jack started, his voice slurring from fear. The guard slammed his hand down on the table and held it down, elbow and wrist, leaving Jack's forearm exposed no matter how hard he tried to shimmy away. Another guard was called in so that he wouldn't be able to claw at the first guard's hand (as he was shamelessly doing now). Seeing that fighting was getting him nowhere, Jack collapsed in the chair, breathing hard. Beckett stooped in front of him, cold blue eyes boring into wide brown ones, looking fascinated by what he saw.

"There it is," he whispered, and even as scared and irritated as he was, Jack couldn't deny his curiosity.

"What?" he snapped. Beckett smiled, a horrible vision.

"The fear I wanted to see in your eyes," he said, and grabbed Jack's face. Jack tried to jerk it away, but he was being held down by two men, and his hair was flying in his face. Hard fingers dug into the flesh of his cheeks and he stopped struggling once again, hatred flowing out of his eyes in cold waves. Beckett seemed endlessly pleased. "Yes, there it is. I knew I would see it sooner or later. You were harder to break than I thought you would be, but only because I wasn't thinking simple enough. I gave you far too much credit. For months I worked on your pride, your sense of responsibility, your family… I even suggested to the governor that you would be just the man to marry his daughter, thereby endangering your freedom as well…" Jack felt his anger slow enough to look at the man in front of him, actually surprised for the first time in a long while.

"But nothing. No reaction at all. So now here we are in my office. You are going to hang for piracy and I finally got the reaction from you that I wanted… all because of the promise of a little pain." He sneered, a gesture of victory, and Jack felt everything slow down further. Rather than the anger he had expected to feel, he was now moved by something else: determination. His arms went slack; he stopped struggling. Beckett hardly noticed. "How primitive."

He smirked at him a moment longer, but the fun seemed to drain out of it the moment that Jack no longer showed his fear. Seeming determined to bring about that emotion again, Beckett reached for the brand and thrust it in the fire. He let it linger over Jack's skin a lifetime before finally pressing down.

Pain exploded over Jack's arm, not localized to the area where the brand was touching but to his entire body. He bit his lip and threw his head back, fighting to not fight, to not show fear, to not cry out. Beckett pulled the brand off and a piece of his skin came with it, looking almost like liquid. Jack weaved, feeling like he might be sick.

"How's that?" Beckett asked, seeming to genuinely wonder. Jack rocked forward to look at it, sweat beading on his upper lip, and fought to smile. To Beckett, he had never looked more crazy and terrifying.

"Doesn't look like a 'P' to me," he said, matter-of-factly. Sure enough, Beckett hadn't pushed down evenly and the circle at the top of the 'P' was broken. Jack gestured for him to do it again, "If you wouldn't mind. If you're going to do something…"

His face hard, Beckett pushed down again. Though his arm had begun to go numb, a fresh, new pain broke through the old and made Jack whimper. Clamping down on his lips to stop any future noise, he put his head on the table and rolled it from side to side. Again the brand was pulled from his arm, again a piece of melted skin pulled free. They sat there a moment in silence, Beckett breathing nearly as hard as Jack was, before Jack lifted his head. He looked at the wound, tears he hadn't been able to contain sliding down his cheeks, and smiled genuinely.

"It's lovely," he said, smiled widening at Beckett's grim face. "Thank you."

"Leave us!" Beckett growled to the guards, his voice low and dangerous. The guards hesitated, clearly doubting the wisdom of such a decision. "Now!" he shouted, when it seemed they weren't going to listen. The brand clattered to the floor and the guards released Jack, his injured arm feeling like it had been submerged in a lake of fire. He pulled it to him instinctively, not able to control the scream that came out of his lips as the skin pulled open further. In front of him, Beckett stalked over to the door the guards had exited out of and turned a bolt to keep them out. Jack barely noticed him, consumed as he was with his pain.

"You think you're clever, don't you?" Beckett asked, his voice little more than a whisper. "You think you can talk to me any way that pleases you and not suffer any consequences." He had made his way back over to Jack and now grabbed him by the neck, throwing him face forward into the floor before he'd been able to move. Beckett was a smaller man than Jack, and under normal circumstances wouldn't have been able to get away with it. But now Jack's arm was on fire, and the circumstances were hardly normal…

Jack threw out his arm to avoid landing on it, and almost out of nowhere he felt the tips of his fingers touch the cool handle of the metal brand. Everything seemed to crystallize in that moment: the world slowed down, the pain (while certainly not disappearing) took a back seat to the feeling of power that swept over him. He smiled, and wrapped his fingers around the rod.

Beckett bent over him, perhaps to make a final blow, and was surprised by that very thing from Jack, albeit of the more physical kind. Jack rolled and swung wide, the brand connecting hard with Beckett's jaw. He didn't go down immediately but he did stumble back, clutching his face in horror as blood slid through his fingers. Jack was on his feet in seconds, the still hot brand hovering only an inch or two from Beckett's face.

"Scream, mate. I'll brand your face beyond recognition before they even get through that door."

Beckett closed his mouth, his eyes wide and his lip pouring blood. Jack smiled and was surprised to find that, despite the pain, he still found this prissy man amusing.

"Here, here," Jack tutted, laughing when Beckett jerked away from the brand. "You talk a lot about weakness and the such and now I've finally found yours: pride. You'd hate to have that pretty face of yours marred, wouldn't you?"

"You wouldn't dare!" Beckett hissed, though his red face betrayed his fear.

Jack held out his mangled forearm, showing off the 'P' barely visible in the broken skin. When it started to heal though, it would make a nice mark. Jack was almost proud of it.

"Pirate," he said simply, grinning all the harder.

"You're mad!" Beckett said, and Jack nodded. He had no doubts about that anymore. Grabbing the first cloth object that he saw (which turned out to be a bit of a table cloth) Jack stuffed it in his mouth and threw him down on the floor before he could hardly process what had happened. He then took the chains which, only minutes before, had bound Jack and used them to cuff Beckett's hands behind his back.

Jack plunged the brand back into the fire, watching Beckett attempt to struggle.

"I believe it is important to know one's place in this world, don't you agree?" Jack asked, to which Beckett screamed around his gag and was not heard. "Good, good. I'm glad we see eye to eye on that." Jack pulled the brand out of the fire and placed it, red hot and glowing, in front of Beckett's face. His muffled screams ceased. "Now, you've given me this 'P' which I assume stands for pirate. Clever that. And true, too, I suppose. But 'P' can stand for all manner of other things as well, can't it? Like pride. Or pompous. Or even prissy." He smiled, looking down on the man who usually looked so in control and who was now crying while he struggled. Jack almost felt a twinge of sympathy before remembering all the things this man had done to him. He wasn't Tia Dalma, but he had a feeling that Beckett would only do worse things before he was done. So he wouldn't kill him, but he wouldn't leave him without a mark of his own, either. It was the least Jack could do… as a little gift… to remember him by.

"I'd like this to stand for that last one, if you don't mind," Jack said, his smile returning. "Now, where should I…"

Jack walked through the halls of the prison, keys swinging around his hand. He had knocked out the guard upstairs and the one at the bottom of the stairs and was surprised to know that he felt no remorse. Only pain, and he felt plenty of that.

"Jack!" Bill Turner called, reaching through the bars to grasp his arm before seeing the mangled flesh and stopping short. Then, upon seeing the look on Jack's face, he lowered his voice and asked, "Jack, how did you get free? Did you kill him?"

Jack pulled the key ring from his wrist and inserted a random one in the lock, the men gathering behind Bill to watch his progress. When it didn't work, he removed it and tried another one, careful to keep the first away from the rest.

Surprisingly, he smiled.

"No, Bill. He's not dead. He won't be sitting down for a while, but he's not dead."

Bill looked at him, curious but not stupid enough to ask him now what he meant. The keys clinked again on the metal bars and three more were tried. After the fourth, it turned and there was a creak as the door swung open. Jack's crew pushed forward and he turned to walk out before stopping to say something to Bill. Behind him, nearly a dozen men had to jerk to a stop to keep from colliding into him.

Jack looked at them in confusion, not sure why they were following him like a litter of puppies. Bill smiled at him somewhat sheepishly and gestured to the men.

"They want to go with ye, Jack. I want to go with ye. We owe you our lives."

Jack found this doubtful, as he had been the reason they were going to hang in the first place, but was not nearly dumb enough to bring this to their attention. Perhaps, he thought, they knew but had wanted to be pirates themselves so badly that they didn't care.

"Very well."

They followed him out the back into the damp darkness of the alley, trudging along in silence. Jack's mind was moving so fast it was like he wasn't thinking at all; he fluttered from thought to thought without completing any of them. All he could think was this: there was no undoing the events of this day and there was no being "Jack Teague" ever again. From now on he was a different person, a pirate, and he would have to look and act accordingly.

A man was lying in the alleyway, dozing with the rats. Jack looked at him a moment, considering, before tapping the old man with the toe of his boot. He was wearing a dirty white shirt and a surprisingly nice jacket, no doubt stolen. The effect of the jacket was somewhat ruined by the dirt which covered it but still, it was to Jack's taste.

"Mate!" Jack kicked the man again. "Wake up, mate. I've a proposition for you."

Once changed, Jack headed for home while he still had the chance. The crew had been given orders to have the Wicked Wench ready to make sail by the time he returned, which (as Bill had warned) better not be long or all might be lost. Jack entered the house as quietly as he could, tip-toeing up the stairs to his room and skipping the stair that (he had learned in his teen years) creaked loudly when stepped upon in the middle of the night. Jack was convinced that the stair remained silent during normal hours, as if it had been charmed for the sole purpose of letting his mother and Mrs. Plath know when he was being wicked. It was silent now as he stepped over it, though he tripped near the top and noise reverberated throughout the house.

Once inside his bedroom, he grabbed the small sack of money he had kept in a drawer and moved to leave. Then, remembering, he walked back to the closet and retrieved the hat from inside. Smiling, he placed it on his head and surveyed himself in the mirror. Though his face was streaked with dirt and tears and his hair was thick with the sweat that was in it, he still thought he made a pretty nice picture.

The hat, of course, was a perfect fit.

He left his room a minute later, nearly colliding with Mrs. Plath in the hallway. He took a deep breath to prepare himself from the coming onslaught but his words died on his lips. He knew something was wrong the moment he looked at her; it was in everything she didn't say. Not one word about his hat, arm, or clothes. She just looked at him with tear-filled eyes and said, "Jack… she… your mother…"

He shoved past her, nearly knocking her into the wall in his haste. His mother was lying on the bed as she had spent the last several months, but now the blanket had been pulled over her head. He ran to her, yanking the sheet away and staring down in shock at her soft, peaceful face.

"I'm sorry, Jack," Mrs. Plath whispered from the doorway. Jack had never heard the woman speak so quietly. "I came in to check on her and it was just too late. I called for the doctor… Joshua went to fetch him."

Jack slid down onto the floor, unable to speak. If he had to describe the emotion it would have been simply this: pain, blinding and all encompassing. It filled his mind like a headache, as physical as the wound on his arm only larger, taking up every ounce of space in his heart until he could barely breathe. He placed his head on the blanket, a sob like Beckett had never been able to get out of him wrenching out of his chest. His mother, the only woman that could have possibly persuaded him to behave, was gone.

"I'm sorry, mum," he whispered, hot tears biting his eyes. He never wanted to feel this again. He never wanted to watch another person he loved die, not if he could help it. And hot on the heels of that thought, irrational, unyielding: I don't ever want to love again. Not if this is how it ends up. I don't want any part of it.

He pulled the sheet back completely, seeing the scrap of lace locked in her fingers. He pulled it away, his tears sliding onto it, and let out a breath. He could remember her words from a few days before…

"I wore this when I married your father. You are so much like your father. And sometimes I think I love you more because of it. I know you won't believe this, but your father was a good man. A pirate and a good man."

Standing, he looked down on her and wrapped the lace around his hand, tucking the edge in under his palm. He stared at it a long moment before finally righting himself and turning to leave. Mrs. Plath was waiting by the door.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again, and she surprised him by grabbing his sleeve. Now she looked more like herself: strong and fierce.

"Don't you say that," she said, tears in her eyes. "Don't you dare. That woman in there died thinking that you were the best man on this earth. Don't you apologize for something you didn't do."

"But I…"

"You are what you are, Jack. You can't help that. Now get out of here before they come for you. I've already sent the East India Trading Company away from this house once today."

Jack gave her a watery smile and hugged her to him.

"Thank you," he said, feeling a bit overwhelmed. He'd been prepared to give up everything until it had been taken from him, and for the first time he could fully see what he was leaving behind. Now what was left of him? Where did he go and what did he do?

Surprising him further, she tapped his hat and he pulled away.

"Suits you," she said. He let out a bark of laughter and had to wipe the sudden tears from his eyes.

"What's your pirate name?" she asked him, and Jack shrugged.

"I don't know. I was thinking maybe Jack the Great and Terrible…" Upon Mrs. Plath's skeptical face, he laughed. "Or not"

His gaze once more traveled down to the lace around his hand, then to his mother lying on the bed. His smile became something more melancholy.

"How about… Jack Sparrow?"

Mrs. Plath sighed, eyes crinkling up, and smiled.

"Captain Jack Sparrow," she corrected. "Yes I think that'll do just fine."

Jack was at the docks only a few minutes later, running towards the port where the Wicked Wench should be. He was surprised when a hand snaked out and pulled him, kicking and hitting, into a dark alley.

"Jack! Jack, it's me! It's Bill!"

Jack calmed once he saw that the man really was Bill Turner and stopped struggling. Before Jack could ask why he was being manhandled, Bill pointed out into the port where a ship appeared to be sinking.

The Wicked Wench.

His ship.

"Beckett," Jack whispered, murder on his mind.

AN: hmmm... guess now we know what Beckett made that face when asked what mark Jack left on him! lol. Remember, please review and let me know what you think. All are appreciated!