Gibbs had never liked palace guards.
They tended to be overfed, undertrained, and deeply convinced that a uniform was a substitute for courage. These ones were no exception.
The moment the first gunshot echoed through the palace halls—sharp, unnatural, followed by the unmistakable clang of ricochet—panic spread like oil on fire. Guards ran without orders. Orders were screamed without thought. Spears clattered to the floor as men tried to decide whether loyalty or survival paid better.
Gibbs chose for them.
He moved with grim efficiency, flintlock barking once, twice. One guard went down clutching his shoulder. Another dropped when Gibbs smashed the butt of his pistol into the man's jaw.
Pintel joined him moments later, appearing out of a side corridor like an enthusiastic nightmare.
"I got one!" Pintel yelled proudly, dragging a guard by the collar before throwing him into a pillar. "Not sure if he's dead or thinkin' real hard about it."
"Less talk," Gibbs snapped, firing again as another guard charged. "More hitting."
Pintel nodded solemnly, then immediately ignored the advice by laughing as he tackled a man twice his size and headbutted him into unconsciousness.
Then Pintel paused.
"Gibbs," he said, suddenly serious.
Gibbs turned, gun still smoking. "What?"
"Jester's coming."
Gibbs frowned. "Who?"
"The man from the bar," Pintel said quickly. "The one who liked Captain's speech. Turns out he ain't just a sad pirate with trauma—he's connected. Resistance group. Been funding them through piracy."
Gibbs absorbed that in a heartbeat.
"And now?"
Pintel grinned, eyes shining. "Now they're storming the palace."
As if summoned by the words, a roar rose from outside. Raw, uneven sound of hundreds of voices layered together. Anger. Fear. Hope. Years of swallowed resentment finally finding breath.
Pintel added, almost reverently, "They heard Captain Jack's speech."
Gibbs closed his eyes for half a second.
Of course they did.
He imagined Jack, drunk and incandescent, shouting about freedom and rebellion in a tavern like he was inventing the concept. And somehow—somehow—that nonsense had struck the match.
"They've had enough," Pintel continued. "Resistance leader Mazana's leading them. Grey hair. Sharp eyes. Carries a rifle."
Gibbs nodded slowly.
"Only one left," Pintel finished. "King Roma."
The roar outside grew louder.
Then came an explosion ahead.
A thunderous crack shook the corridor, dust falling from the ceiling. Gold—actual gold—burst from a shattered wall like a glittering wound.
Gibbs swore.
He ran.
The room Jack and Van Augur had been fighting in looked like madness had taken physical form.
Coins carpeted the floor. Gold gleamed in unnatural piles. A wall had been obliterated, leaving a human-sized hole punched clean through stone.
And in the middle of it—
Jack Sparrow sat on the floor.
Blood stained his mouth. His coat was gone. His shirt clung to him, torn and soaked. His sword rested loosely in his hand.
Beside him lay Van Augur, unconscious, chest rising shallowly, rifle fallen from his grip.
Pintel skidded to a halt behind Gibbs. "By the seas…"
Jack looked up.
He smiled.
"Ah," he said faintly. "You're back."
Gibbs crossed the distance in three strides, crouching beside him. "Captain, you—"
Jack waved a hand. "Later. Take the tall one to the ship."
Gibbs blinked. "What?"
"And prepare meat," Jack added, eyes drifting closed for a moment. "He'll be hungry when he wakes."
Pintel stared. "You just fought him half to death."
Jack cracked one eye open. "Yes. Very rude of me."
Then his body tilted forward.
Gibbs caught him just in time, hauling Jack's arm over his shoulder with a grunt. "You're done talking."
Pintel moved to help, glancing between Jack and Augur. "Which one first?"
"The sniper," Gibbs said. "Captain won't forgive us if we drop him."
Pintel nodded solemnly, then paused. "Should we… tie him?"
Gibbs looked at Van Augur, unconscious amid gold and ruin.
"…Yes."
They dragged Augur out first, then Jack, moving through corridors now filled with noise—shouts, footsteps, the crack of gunfire from outside.
By the time they reached the throne room, the fight was already over.
Jester stood at the front of the crowd, bells silent, his expression stripped of humor. Around him were dozens of commoners—farmers, dockworkers, former soldiers, pirates—armed with rifles, blades, whatever they'd been able to seize.
At their center stood Mazana.
Grey-haired. Straight-backed. Eyes sharp enough to cut.
And behind the golden throne—
King Roma cowered.
He tried to hide, pressing himself against the throne's back, as if gold could shield him. But his body spilled out from either side, an obscene parody of the power he'd clung to.
"Your Majesty," Mazana said calmly.
Roma squeaked.
"I am your king!" Roma cried. "You cannot—"
Jester kicked him.
Just enough to knock him onto his side.
Silence fell.
Jester's voice trembled with rage held too long. "You were never our king."
Roma sobbed.
Then Jester looked past him—through the hole in the wall—to where Gibbs and Pintel carried Jack Sparrow's limp body, and Van Augur behind them.
Blood stained Jack's shirt.
Gold clung to his hair.
A foreign pirate, bleeding for a land not his own.
Jester swallowed.
He stepped forward and bowed.
Deeply.
"Thank you. We will treat him," Jester said. "On my life."
Gibbs hesitated, surprised, but nodded. They had neither supplies nor time to argue.
Jack was carried away.
Roma's dream came true that day.
He was dragged into the square, stripped of gold and dignity alike. The crowd gathered, eager to watch.
His execution was swift.
The cheer that followed was joy mixed with relief.
A few pirates tried to loot in the confusion.
They were hanged within the hour.
No one interfered after that.
That night, the city stayed alive with celebration.
Mazana met Gibbs at the docks later, bowing his head. "Your captain lit the fire. We merely followed."
Gibbs asked quietly, "The World Government?"
Mazana smiled thinly. "They care only for tribute. Gold fills their silence. We found plenty."
He paused. "Also, to repay your debt, we will fly your flag."
Gibbs tried to object.
Mazana wouldn't hear it.
By the time Jack Sparrow woke, the island was singing.
Rum flowed. Food piled high. Stories spread faster than truth ever could.
Jack, still sore, spent the night drinking and embellishing his own legend.
Jester followed him everywhere, now idolising Jack.
Ragetti finally joined the festivities, loudly upset he'd missed the main battle.
Robin, disguised, watched from the side—smiling.
And Pintel flirted terribly with a group of women who tolerated him only because he belonged to the Caribbean Pirates.
Above them all, a new story took root.
One about a drunk pirate who walked into a palace—
And left behind a revolution.