"Jack," Jones rumbled,"you broke the pact. You failed to keep your end of the bargain."
Two of his crew hauled Jack upright, forcing him to face the octopus captain.
Jack winced, then brightened, as if struck by a clever thought.
"Now, to be fair," he said carefully, "the agreement wasn't technically complete. I wasn't captain of the Black Pearl at the time."
He tilted his head, hopeful.
"And I've only just got her back," he said earnestly. "So really—if you think about it—this is less breaking the deal and more a… scheduling mishap."
Jones's expression didn't change.
"That," he said flatly, "is your problem, Jack Sparrow. A bargain is a bargain."
He stepped closer, the sound of wet leather and creaking wood following him.
"You will come aboard the Flying Dutchman," Jones continued, voice like a tide dragging over stone, "and you will serve one hundred years to pay your debt."
Jack winced.
"One hundred. Right. Round number. Very… decisive."
Jones raised a clawed finger.
"And—"
"Who," he asked quietly, "killed my Kraken?"
The deck seemed to grow colder. The crew shifted, uneasy, barnacled faces turning toward Jack.
Jack swallowed, glanced left, then right, as if hoping the answer might appear somewhere else.
"…Define killed."
A tentacle snapped down inches from Jack's face.
"Do not test me," Jones hissed. "The beast was bound to me. It does not simply vanish."
Jack exhaled slowly.
"Well. Funny thing about that," he said. "You see, I didn't technically do it."
Jones leaned in, close enough that Jack could smell the sea on him.
"But you know who did."
Jack hesitated for half a heartbeat—then gave a crooked grin.
"…Yes."
"He's behind you."
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the lanterns along the Dutchman flickered—once, twice—and the shadows at the edge of the deck thickened, stretching unnaturally long.
The crew turned.
From the darkness behind Jones, a figure stepped forward as if the shadows themselves had parted for him.
"Nice ship," Daniel said, glancing around with mild interest. "Very… maritime. Could use better lighting."
A ripple of unease ran through the crew. Some recoiled instinctively. Others tightened their grips on hooks and cutlasses that suddenly felt inadequate.
Davy Jones did not turn immediately.
Slowly, deliberately, he pivoted to face the newcomer.
His eyes narrowed. Tentacles twitched.
"You," Jones said. His voice dropped, heavy with pressure, like the sea before a storm. "You are not of the living… nor of the dead."
Daniel smiled. Not wide. Not friendly.
"Good eye. Most people miss that."
Davy Jones's tentacles stiffened, curling tighter as his voice rolled across the deck like a tide under pressure.
"You have made a mistake," he said. "The Flying Dutchman is a ship of the dead. It does not permit guests—without its captain's permission."
Daniel looked down at the planks beneath his feet, then back up at Jones.
"Then I suppose it's fortunate I'm not here as a guest."
The air shifted.
'Death Domination'
Darkness spilled from Daniel's shadow, thick and unnatural, spreading across the deck like ink poured into water. It crawled over the planks, climbed the rails, swallowed the lantern light. The crew staggered back, boots scraping, weapons raised but useless.
"What—" one of them whispered.
The Dutchman groaned.
Not the creak of old wood—but the sound of something being rewritten.
Rot peeled away from the hull as if scraped clean by unseen hands. Barnacles shattered and fell into the sea.
The sickly green glow faded, replaced by a deep, lightless black. The sails darkened, cloth turning sleek and whole, a massive sigil forming at their center—a skull crowned by a scythe.
The mast straightened. The deck hardened. The ship itself seemed to exhale.
The Flying Dutchman was changing.
Davy Jones staggered a step, claws digging into the planks. "No," he growled. "This ship answers to me."
Daniel lifted his gaze, eyes calm, voice steady.
"It did," he corrected. "Past tense."
The darkness finished spreading, settling into the ship like a new skin.
"This vessel ferries the dead," Daniel continued. "And I am far more qualified to decide where they go."
Silence fell heavy over the deck.
Then Daniel lifted his hand.
"Now," he said calmly, "the Flying Dutchman belongs to me—and so does its crew."
An invisible pressure slammed down across the ship. The deck groaned. One by one, the sailors were forced to their knees, weapons clattering uselessly from numb fingers. Even the sea seemed to still, as if afraid to move.
The crew cried out—not in pain, but shock.
Their inhuman features began to unravel. Barnacles cracked and fell away. Scales dried and flaked off. Tentacles shrank, skin knitting back into flesh. Fish-eyes dulled into human ones. Boots reformed around feet that were no longer fused to the deck.
Men—just men again—knelt trembling where monsters had stood.
Daniel turned slightly.
A black tendril slid out of the shadows and snapped the ropes binding Jack Sparrow, freeing him in an instant. Jack rubbed his wrists, blinking at the scene with open disbelief.
Daniel glanced at him, tone almost casual.
"So, Jack," he asked, "what do you call a captain without a ship… or a crew?"
Jack looked at the kneeling sailors.
At the transformed Dutchman.
At Davy Jones—alone.
Then he smiled.
"…Unemployed," he said.
Jones staggered back a step, claws scraping uselessly against the deck. The ship did not answer him. The sea did not answer him.
He looked around—at the kneeling crew, at the altered timbers, at the silence where power once answered his call.
"…What are you?" Davy Jones demanded, his voice rough, more hollow than furious now.
Daniel regarded him evenly. "A demigod of death."
For the first time, something flickered across Jones's face that was not rage.
Understanding.
Daniel lifted his hand. The Sword of Death formed there without ceremony—dark, absolute, its presence alone making the air feel thinner.
"You don't need a heart for this to work," Daniel said calmly. "So I'll ask you once. Do you have any final words?"
Jones laughed—low, bitter, broken. "Final words?" he rasped. "After centuries of service… this is how it ends?"
His eyes drifted, not to Daniel, but beyond him—to the sea.
Just memory.
A woman laughing on a shore he was promised but never reached.
Warm sand under bare feet he never touched again.
A bargain made out of love—and pride—and rage.
Ten years of duty. One day ashore.
He had kept the duty.
The day never came.
Inside, something in him finally cracked.
Calypso…
The name did not leave his lips. It sank inward instead, heavy and aching, a regret he would never admit aloud. Love twisted into chains. Chains mistaken for purpose.
Outwardly, Jones only sneered.
"No," he said hoarsely. "I have no wishes."
Daniel's eyes did not waver.
"Then rest," he said.
The sword descended.
*****
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