"You are to take the Wicked Wench from here to the Bahamas, offload the cargo and return. Payment on arrival back here. Do you understand?"

Cutler Beckett, head of the East India Trading Company, surveyed the young man standing in front of his desk, awaiting an answer.

The white of his shirt collar contrasted nicely with his tanned skin as he stood with his thumbs tucked into the sword belt around his narrow hips. Light glinted on the belts buckle and the emerald ring on the man's right forefinger.

Dark eyes fixed on Beckett for a moment. "Understood. I presume the course to the location is already plotted on my charts?"

"Of course, Sparrow. Cargo and provisions also already aboard. Crew waiting. Everything ready for you."

Jack smiled like a shark, no humour in sight. "I'll be off then, sir. No point delaying while there's cargo in the hold."

"No," Beckett murmured to himself as his employee exited, "no point at all."

Jack guided the ship out of the harbour and into open sea silently, the salty breeze tugging a strand of hair free from his ponytail. He had been with the Company five years now, finally had a ship of his own to captain and was being well-paid for his service.

He shared a house with nine other EITC employees in London, the reputation attached to his last name meaning they all treated him with respect as well as friendship. When not at work, he was free to sample all the delights London had to offer, which he relished in doing.

Turning his gaze on the crew, he gave his orders and stepped away from the wheel, going to his cabin. Closing the door before pouring himself a drink of whiskey from a glass decanter. Sitting down, he sipped the alcohol in silence while looking through the papers on his desk, searching for a cargo list, which he didn't find.

Jack forgot all about his cargo for two days, until he overhead one of the crew talking about some kind of trouble in the hold.

"What kind of trouble can you possibly have with crates of tea and spices and cloths?" he asked with a frown, assuming, as he hadn't found an inventory, the cargo was nothing out of the ordinary from his usual transportation.

One of the crew, a short, muscular man with grey streaks through his dark hair, ran his gaze over Jack in disdain. "The cargo isn't in crates. It's in chains. And some of it doesn't want to stay in the chains."

His frown deepening, Jack turned on his heel and strode swiftly down to the Wench's hold. He eventually found a key for the door and unlocked it, standing in the doorway as he lit a lantern.

Even before he could see, he could smell and hear. The stink of human waste and sweat and death was strong enough to taste, making him gag. Chains rattling mingled with coughing and quiet, terrified murmuring.

When the lantern was lit and he could see what was in the brig with him, Jack did throw up.

People. There were people in the brig. Some sitting, some lying, all in shackles and heavy chains. Barely clothed, filthy and emaciated, huge eyes in thin faces turning towards the light in fear.

A quick headcount totalled one hundred. One hundred slaves, now on route to a life of hard labour and abuse in the Bahamas. Jack's gaze was drawn to a young woman, her hair just recognisable as blonde in the lanterns light.

His mind flashed straight to another blonde woman, who had once been in the same situation and his stomach threatened to rebel again at the thought. Pushing the image of his godmother in shackles firmly out of his head, he fished a short length of strong wire out of his pocket.

Doing his best to ignore the overpowering stench, Jack started to pick the locks on the shackles of the slaves who let him get close enough.

The dead he moved out from among the living, deliberately placing the bodies near the brigs hatch for whoever came down next to see. He laid them a distance apart, leaving room for the living between them if there were any who wanted to pay respects.

As soon as he'd finished that task, he was sick for a second time. There were children among the bodies he'd moved, children who should have had a bright future ahead of them. A future cut short by starvation and neglect, all due to one man.

Upon returning to deck, he fixed his crew with a stormy stare, fury and disgust brewing his eyes as he gave curt orders to ajust the heading.

"But Lord Beckett's orders, sir-"

"To hell with his fucking orders!" Jack snapped viciously. "I'm captaining this ship and you will ajust the heading unless you want me to keelhaul you. Savvy?" He drew his pisol and spun it idly, a dangerous expression on his features as he fixed his black gaze on the man currently at the helm.

Apparently the threat of keelhauling, or maybe the glimpse of the rarely-seen temper Jack had inherited from his father, was effective. The helmsman changed the Wench's course without further protest.

Jack walked the length of the deck twice, trying to regain control of his emotions. Failing to do so, he went and ate, as the previous contents of his stomach were now in the brig, and had a word with the cook. After receiving assurance that the slaves would be fed and watered, he returned to his cabin.

Three days later, the Wench made port in a tiny smuggling town which Jack had friends in. There, he entrusted the care of the slaves to his friends, paying for their needs to be met and getting provisions for the ship.

Upon arriving back in London, he sent word for Beckett to meet him on the ship, past the point of caring that he was giving orders to his superior.

His blood was boiling, fury raging like flames in his chest and he paced the cabin while awaiting Beckett's arrival.

The images of the slaves in the brig haunted his thoughts and fuelled his rage at the man who entered the cabin after a while.

"One hundred fucking slaves." His voice was quiet and shaking with anger as he spoke without giving Beckett time to open his mouth. "One hundred people. Living, breathing people. Chained like animals, starved and locked in a brig. Going to a life that nobody should ever have to live. What kind of fucking excuse can you possibly have to justify this?!"

Beckett looked entirely unaffected by Jack's outburst as he sat down calmly.
"It's very good, very profitable business," he said.

Jack had stopped pacing. He drew himself up and looked Beckett directly in the eyes. Standing, he towered over the seated head of the EITC.

Perhaps noticing this, Beckett stood too, but Jack was still taller by several inches, his whole body trembling with fury.

"Good business?" he repeated. "That's what you tell yourself, because you've never seen anyone who got out of slavery, and how it effects them. The things that stick with them for the rest of their lives, even when they're free, safe, cared for and loved." He shook his head, disgusted. "Only a heartless bastard like you could call slave trading 'business'."

"Of course it's business. And your actions have cost me thousands, something that necessitates punishment."

"Go ahead, put me in a jail cell." Jack lifted his chin defiantly.

Beckett laughed. "Oh no. I've got something else in mind." He took a metal rod from his belt. "Come with me."

In the Wench's galley, he placed the end of the rod into the stove, put Jack at gunpoint and tied him to a chair. Throughout this, Jack kept an aristocratic facade of bored arrogance, something he'd watched his mother do a million times. It hid emotion, which was why he was doing it.

Eventually, the rod was hot enough. Beckett lifted it, and Jack could now see the end of it.

A smoking, sinister letter P.

A pirate brand.

It glowed red-hot as Beckett crossed to the chair Jack was tied in.

He spoke as he brought the brand down, but Jack didn't hear him. The pain blinded him, and all he could hear was the sizzle of his skin burning under the metal. A cloud of smoke rose as the brand remained in place, stinging his eyes even though they were screwed shut in pain.

He would not scream. He would not cry out. He would not give Beckett the satisfaction.

His knuckles were white, nails digging into his palms as he fought to remain silent and keep his head up. A minute passed, maybe more, seconds blurring in a haze of agony. Hot tears slid silently down his cheeks and a choked sob finally escaped his lips.

The instant it did, Beckett stepped back and raised the brand off his wrist.

"You...bastard..." Jack whispered, breathing ragged with pain as he slowly opened his eyes. His shirt was drenched in sweat, body trembling slightly.

"Admirable last words, Sparrow," Beckett said, a pistol now pointed directly at his chest.

He fired it twice and Jack exhaled sharply as the breath was driven from his lungs. It took a few minutes before the pain set in, and when it did, he knew he was going to die. It wasn't long before he could taste blood in the back of his throat as he fought for breath.

Beckett finally cut the bonds and then casually opened the galley stove. Jack was slowly losing consciousness as he shovelled a heap of burning coals out onto the floor. He repeated this several times before making his exit.

The wooden floor of the galley crackled as it burned. A cannon blast sounded. Jack couldn't breathe.

Soon, the roar of fire was all Jack could hear. The ship was burning, with him still aboard it, dying.

Dying a pirate. The price paid for being a good man.

A/N. So, this ended up being a hell of a lot longer than expected, but I didn't want to split it into two parts. So here's a nice, long oneshot for anyone who still reads these.