Caribbean Sea – Off the Coast of Havana, Cuba
The armored cruiser Victory Goddess, an Audacious-class leviathan flying the Union Jack, lay upon the turquoise waters like a steel sovereign descended from Olympus.
Slightly smaller than the Queen of Revenge, yet no less oppressive in presence, her hull exuded absolute dominance—iron, steam, and inevitability.
Around her, three Audacious-class steam frigates formed a compact battle formation, black smoke rising steadily from their funnels like the breath of restrained predators.
This was the so-called Caribbean Joint Counter-Terrorism Fleet, dispatched by Prince Arthur Lionheart to restore order.
Captain's Cabin – HMS Victory Goddess
The fleet commander was not studying charts.
He was entertaining a guest.
The man smelled of rum, salt, and old blood.
A thick black beard framed a scarred face. One eye was gone. His left hand ended in a polished iron hook. Two flintlock pistols rested at his belt.
He was Jack "Iron Hook", one of the most feared pirate kings in Caribbean waters.
And now—he sat stiffly on a leather sofa, posture awkward, eyes flickering with barely concealed terror.
Because across from him sat Mr. Hanson, private envoy of Prince Arthur Lionheart.
The same envoy whose single letter had ruined Jack's former patrons—the Americans—without firing a shot.
Hanson spoke little.
He placed two objects on the table.
The first:
An open chest brimming with Spanish gold coins.
The second:
A meticulously annotated intelligence map, supplied by British naval intelligence—every pirate cove, hidden harbor, artillery nest marked in cold red ink.
"Captain Jack," Hanson said calmly, adjusting his gold-rimmed spectacles, voice devoid of emotion, "His Royal Highness Prince Arthur Lionheart values your… influence in these waters."
"Therefore, he offers you—and all your associates—two options."
He gestured to the gold.
"Option One: You lower your skull flag and raise the banner of His Majesty's Royal Navy Auxiliary Maritime Security Force."
"You will become legal agents of the British Empire."
"You will receive a fixed salary, weapons, and the honor of service under Her Majesty the Queen."
"All past crimes will be… forgotten."
"Your task will be simple."
"Manage those who refuse."
Then Hanson's finger moved—slowly—to the map.
"Option Two," he continued, a faint, lethal smile appearing, "you decline our goodwill."
"In that case, before dawn, my dear Victory Goddess will personally visit every location marked here—using her main guns."
"To remove you, your men, and your caves of gold from the surface of this world."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Choose."
"Become a respected Royal Auxiliary Officer."
"Or become a legend feeding sharks at the bottom of the Caribbean."
Jack Iron Hook was no fool.
Survival had made him sharp.
Having seen the steel colossus outside—and understanding precisely what British naval artillery meant—he required less than three seconds.
He slid off the sofa and dropped to his knees.
With his remaining hand and cold iron hook, he clutched Hanson's leg.
"My lord!" he sobbed. "I swear loyalty! I will serve Her Majesty as faithfully as a dog and a horse!"
"I have long despised those false pirates who wear our banner while doing American work! They disgrace our kind!"
"I still have influence," he gasped. "Give me time. I will persuade the others."
"Let them abandon darkness for order."
The Pacification of the Caribbean
Over the following week, a grotesque farce of diplomacy unfolded across the Caribbean.
Armed with Arthur's informal mandate, Jack Iron Hook—now wearing a crisp Auxiliary uniform—visited every major pirate lord.
To the reasonable, he brought gold, rifles, and promises.
"Brothers," he would say earnestly, "the age of piracy is over. Why die for nothing?"
"We are civil servants now."
"Steady pay. Protection. Pensions. Isn't that better than drowning one day with a knife in your ribs?"
To the stubborn—
He slapped the intelligence map onto the table.
Then pointed toward the distant silhouette of the Victory Goddess.
"You see her?"
"That's our new master's favorite toy."
"If she wakes angry, this island—and you—meet Poseidon."
"Choose wisely."
Gold and annihilation.
No pirate resisted both.
Within fifteen days, nearly every established pirate faction in the Caribbean voluntarily accepted reorganization.
They donned uniforms. They carried weapons British.
Outlaws became maritime police.
A brutal purge followed.
Pirates hunted pirates.
Old grudges were settled under imperial sanction.
Cannons roared. Cutlasses clashed.
And beneath the banner of anti-piracy, British influence spread unchallenged across Caribbean waters.
Arthur Lionheart had not conquered the Caribbean.
He had outsourced its control.