What Would You Do? *1*

Author: Pilgrim
Title: What Would You Do?
Rating: NC-17 by the end possibly sooner depends on how the story progresses again
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the PotC characters or movies (unfortunately); anything you recognize isn’t mine (god damn them to hell!) Before anyone asks yes, Oria is mine who else could have thought up such a creature?
Feedback: Please! First time fan fiction writer and desperate for tips, tricks, advice, stuff me full of info please! I want to improve and take over the world with my genius mwhahaha! Lol, only kidding but feedback would be fantastic, send it to raukarwen_deomene@yahoo.com or review!
Notes: So far unread, so really need feedback on it.

Chapter 1 - Isle De Muerta

Jack rolled over groggily; there was sand in his mouth, up his nose and gluing his eyes shut. Brushing the scratchy irritation away sleepily he sat up and blinked in the hot sun slowly focusing his eyes on the continuing nothingness across the aquamarine ocean. Always alone, how many days had he been here now? He couldn’t remember, he knew it felt like years, alone… strange really, how when you spend all your time with someone a few days alone feels like an eternity.

Standing up slowly he swayed as the rum began to repeat itself on his senses and his balance went awry again with the god awful headache from too much sun. His eyes hurt from the constant glare and his throat wasn’t faring much better from the perpetual burn of the rum and the wind that insisted on sweeping half the beach down his throat every time he took a breath.

He glanced about him again, stumbling as his feet crossed over one another uncertainly, made all the more tricky with the shifting of the sands. He was sure he had been tossed off the Pearl with a hat. He shrugged; there was no hat anywhere in the vicinity, nothing but sand and palms with the occasional sprouting of half-dead grass, well that wasn’t at all familiar he joked with himself. Jack decided that staying in the sun for much longer was not the best of ideas rather swiftly and headed for the shade of the palms before changing track.

“Best get some rum, won’t get far without that!” He fell over his own feet, his head was pounding something awful and he felt sick to his stomach. He felt like crying, this was ridiculous, a few days alone and he was a wreck. Once again brushing sand from his face and jacket he stumbled back onto his feet. He felt more like a child learning its’ first steps than a full grown man perfectly capable of scrambling up and down rigging and along ship yards, he grasped at swaying palm after swaying palm in his never ending journey towards the rum cache. He knew he had left the trap door open so that he would be able to find it easily next time; he had had some semblance of thought then before the rum took over.

“There you are!” Jack crowed and grinned as he stumbled towards the open gap and attempted to place his unco-operating feet onto the steps only to find they had switched sides and were on the other side of the door. He fell head first into them with a surprised cry and dribbled ungracefully down the rest before landing on the smooth floor of the cellar on his backside having twisted several times in his tumble.

Rubbing his forehead tenderly Jack glanced about the cellar warily, he was sure it had somehow changed itself, for one the steps had definitely moved to the opposite side of the door. Pushing himself back up shakily he reached out for a bottle of rum and grinned as his fingers closed around it and he headed back up the now behaving steps only to hear the click of a pistol. He shook his head sure he was just imagining it and strode on till a cold pressure pressed against the end of his nose; slowly Jack raised his eyes from the bottle of rum. Along the muzzle of a rather long barrelled pistol, to a slightly hairy, tanned hand then a shirt clothed arm.

“I don’t think that’s yours mate.” Jack lifted his eyes higher till they met a mans’, now he knew he was hallucinating. He smacked the pistol away and continued walking only to bump into the man he thought he would have been able to walk through and finding him to actually be quite solid. He scowled up at the solid hallucination from his seat in the sand, they weren’t supposed to be solid his rum saturated brain rationalised quietly.

“That’s our rum mate.” A second pistol clicked into place, Jack turned slowly finding he was surrounded by the rum runners he had been waiting for. All of which had their unfriendly pistols aimed at him or rather at various points of his body. One was definitely focused on his nether regions and the finger on the trigger looked rather trigger happy. Slowly he raised his hands with a sheepish grin, well aware that he was significantly outnumbered and this was most definitely not a hallucination. He had decided not to risk angering the possible hallucination aiming at his crotch, just in case it wasn’t a hallucination. A tall man with thick dirty blonde hair stepped forwards one eye covered by a patch.

“Who the bloody hell are you?” Jack scowled at him thoughtfully and pondered his response slowly, well aware that his answer could save or end his life. Great, his first fatalistic decision and he was completely and utterly hung-over, not the best start.

:/

Oria stood up as footsteps echoed down the rickety wooden slats, the ship had been silent for nearly three hours all the pirates choosing to go ashore and gawp at the treasures of the Isle De Muerta. She leaned against the bars, most likely some drunken idiot stumbling down the wrong side of the ship thinking it to be the crews hold not the brig. With any luck he’d collapse near her and have some keys on him or some other tool for her to break free with.

“Oria?” She frowned and stood slightly straighter; she knew that voice all too well.

“William?” Bootstrap stepped out of the shadow with a grin ducking slightly to avoid a low bar. His eyes doing a quick sweeping check of her to ensure there were no new wounds that needed tending.

“How are you doing?” She glared at him; of all the ridiculous comments to make he had to come out with the one that was only appropriate over coffee and scones in a ladies luncheon club when everything was normal and dull.

“How do you think?” He sighed and stepped up to the bars, he wasn’t going to show just how afraid he was. Truth be told, he was terrified and was hoping Jacks’ assurances were correct that she wouldn’t attack those that befriended her without due reason. He was well aware he had given her due reason and prayed friendship would hold through, he had to explain his reasons.

“Oria, if I had had a choice you know I would have done anything to stop what happened from happening.” Oria snorted disbelievingly and watched as he took a step backwards fearfully before clearing his throat and stepping back up. Never show fear he reminded himself repeatedly.

“You had a choice William, fight or stand aside, you stood aside.” He shook his head and spread his arms pleadingly; she had to know the reasons, he wouldn’t die content unless she did, even if she didn’t understand them.

“He said he would kill me if I didn’t, said I’d go down with Jack. I couldn’t do that, I couldn’t just… I couldn’t just leave William and Heather. They need me to support them even if I’m not actually there in person.” Oria shook her head and turned away from him.

“Jack’s not dead yet.” Bootstrap frowned as he watched her, he knew she was good but was she psychic as well. A witch, he took a step back and crossed himself but he couldn’t just turn and leave something held him back.

“How do you know?” Oria turned back to face him her eyes deadly serious, frustration still bristling at the forefront.

“How much do you know about Davy Jones?” Bootstrap shrugged, he’d heard the tales, hadn’t everyone. He wasn’t an expert on the subject and Oria probably knew more tales than him, he shrugged lightly.

“Not much.”

:/

Bootstrap leaned back against the wall in shock, the story she had told him had shocked him to the core. It was beyond belief, he’d heard the stories, he’d known she was something different, but this? Jack had warned him long ago that she was not what she appeared to be. Now when he looked at her, he no longer saw a little girl fighting in a patriarchal world but like her name suggested, a demon in lambs clothing. But he had had the chance to get to know her, he knew beneath it there was some personality that matched the lambs clothing. Jack had been privy to that part of her mainly; perhaps he had forgotten with his privileges just what she was, what she was capable of. After all how could a hundred years of history change a person?

“How did you… I mean…. So…” Oria watched as he tried to process the information of her past, he shook his head as if to knock everything into place, “So basically, if Jack dies Davy Jones will claim the Black Pearl and take her back to the bottom of the ocean and you’ll be forced to return to him for eternity?” Oria nodded, glad that she didn’t have to go through it repeatedly.

“Basic gist yeah. Jack dies, I and the Pearl go down with him to an eternity of hell.” Bootstrap ran his fingers through his hair nervously. That definitely added complications to the relationship, both of them damned.

“Hell that’s not a good prospect for either of you.” Oria watched silently as he sank onto a barrel and let the information sink in further. She tilted her head regarding him, he noticed her look with a grin. Sometimes she was truly comical, like a child learning etiquette and continually getting it wrong but valiantly continuing regardless, “What?”

“Something’s different. You’re not the same.” Bootstrap glanced down at himself and patted his body worriedly, his fingers registered the small bag of golden coins in his pocket and he remembered the other reason he had come down here for. He pulled the bag free of his belt and opened it up,

“Here, we all got a share of golden coins in a chest. Thought you might want some for when Barbossa frees you.” He strode over and held a handful out to her; she withdrew quickly pressing herself against the back of the cell tightly. Bootstrap frowned at the sudden recoil, there was the faintest glint of fear or was that curiosity, she was too hard to read, he settled for a bit of both.

“Where did you get them?” Bootstrap frowned and glanced down at the golden medallions. As far as he could see they were just plain golden coins, nothing to be afraid of.

“From the chest on the island I just said that.” Oria glared at them accusingly as if they had just sworn at her in the rudest and most crude way imaginable.

“They’re cursed, can’t you feel it?” Bootstrap turned one of the medallions over in his fingers, the Aztec gold glinting in the dim light. He shook his head, he couldn’t feel a thing. They didn’t look cursed, they didn’t look evil at all, slightly strange with the skull baring its’ teeth but not evil.

“No, I don’t feel anything.” Oria looked at him curiously and slowly stepped forwards already wondering if it was just her that could sense it. There was a definite aura about them, like a black shroud dancing over it through the light of the candles. The rolls of the engravings flickering with the light, the skull laughing manically.

“You’re the same; the same scent is on you as is on the coins.” Bootstrap chuckled, well he could explain that.

“That’s ‘cos I only washed a few days ago.” Oria shook her head, that wasn’t the scent; it is something exclusive, something purely evil.

“No, it’s deeper than that, stronger, metallic almost, like the gold.” She stepped forwards looking down at the pieces; she took one from his palm and studied it carefully. The pirate skull bared its’ teeth angrily at her, and she recognised it instantly, “Cortez’s cursed gold. I thought it was only a myth when my father told me about it.” Bootstrap watched as she turned the small medallion over and over in her fingers, her eyebrows furrowed and she was mumbling slightly under her breath in some language he didn’t understand. She looked up suddenly, “How many pieces were there?” Bootstrap thought about this carefully.

“Eight hundred and eighty two in total, there’s none left now.” He paused at the look on her face. The glimmer of a grin, the cogs working over time in her mind.

“Six, six, six, the sign of the devil.” Bootstrap frowned, thinking she had spent too many hours alone in a cell and had finally lost all semblance of sanity and hearing.

“No, eight hundred and eighty two.” Oria grinned and ran her thumb over the skull.

“That’s what he wants you to think. Two is the key, one God and one Devil. How many did it take to lift the lid off, two, no more and no less I wager?” Bootstrap nodded, they had tried with four, then three then two of the strongest and the lid had lifted, smooth as a sheet of silk. She turned it back over, “Two faces to a coin. Tell me William, what is eight take away two.” He glared at her condescendingly, she shrugged, “It’s six, there are two eights, take two from each and add them to the two at the end and what do you get?” Bootstrap frowned before rolling his eyes as he realised what she was implying.

“Six, six, six. Oria that’s just coincidence.” She smiled and handed the coin back over.

“Is it? How convenient that it is also linked with the most powerful curse any have ever recorded?” Bootstrap glared at her, she was just playing games again, he wasn’t going to have that. Jack played games, now he knew where he had got it from. She was a bad influence, bred from bad blood.

“You’re daft, too many hours trapped in a cell.” He wasn’t about to say she was from bad blood even is she was behind bars and couldn’t reach him. Oria watched him retreat back up to the deck, untucking her sleeve as he disappeared revealing two golden coins. She chuckled and tossed them into her pocket, how easy it was to distract anyone, a little pixie dust and confusion and everything fell into place, she had plans for these little coins. Big plans.