Ah, Tortuga It had been too long since Jack had last set foot in this thriving coastal metropolis. And, of course, as Blackbeard's defeater, he expected no less than a very grand welcome.

Evidently, the weather didn't feel the same way.

Rain slid off Jack's hat as he stepped down. You could scarcely see the glowing lights of the town through the rain that bucketed down relentlessly. Ordinarily Jack didn't mind the rain too much: it had always had a strangely heroic feel to it, and it looked particularly impressive to be standing at the helm in a raging storm, standing stoically still and captaining the ship at all costs. But this rain was cold. It slid down his neck and made the kohl around his eyes run miserably so he looked like some kind of melting candle. Yes, the sooner he got out of this weather and into the warm tavern the better.

He set off through the rain, picking his path through the mud carefully and treading mostly on tiptoe, arms held out jauntily on either side to keep his balance. His crew laboured along behind him, slipping and sliding. Oh well. They were big boys. They could manage. Rubbing his eyes with his leather sleeve, Jack peered through the rain. He could vaguely make out the lights of the tavern now. Unless they were just a bunch of stupid fairies or something. Given the things he had been through, it would hardly surprise him if they were. Even a bunch of pesky midgets with wings were bound to get him involved in some cross-ocean race to find yet another mythical artefact.

Not today, though. Sure enough, the twinkling lights turned out to be nothing more than the flickering lights of the tavern. With a wolfish smile, Jack threw open the doors and stepped inside with a flourish. The water slid off his coat and dripped from his hair as he strode to the bar, rubbing his hands together excitedly.

Time to get to work.

The first tankard of rum was drained quickly enough. Jack smacked his lips and opened them once more to order another one, but before the word began to form in his throat another was slid across the charred wooden surface towards him. He looked at it curiously and let his gaze wander up the bar, where a suitably aged man with a weathered face and dreadlocks not unlike Jack's sat, half-concealed in shadow.

Jack sighed and rolled his eyes. As per usual, good old Dad had chosen to show up just when Jack needed him least. Needless to say, he probably had little more than a few lines of useless, cryptic advice to offer him. It was through experience that Jack had learned that whenever Captain Teague turned up, he was about to get himself pulled into yet another supernatural, life-threatening and in the end totally unrewarding adventure.

"'Allo, Jackie," he croaked from down there.

Jack nodded his acknowledgements and lifted the tankard to his lips. "Evening, Paps," he replied. Glancing into the tankard at the last minute, he noticed two things: firstly, that the tankard was half empty. Secondly, there was a fat cockroach happily doing the backstroke in what was left of the delicious drink. He put it down hurriedly; on second glance, he noticed a little line of froth on his father's moustache that looked curiously like rum.

"You look good," Teague continued, his leathery finger tracing meaningless patterns in the worn surface of the table.

Jack sniffed. "So they tell me," he replied. "Any scuttle buck for me or did you just drop in to say hello to your favourite son?"

Teague stared from beneath hooded lids. "You're my only son."

Jack shrugged. "I had always wondered," he admitted. "So I take it it's not the latter, then."

"Did you ever find the Fountain of Youth?" Teague continued, disregarding Jack's last remark. He had that hungry look in his eyes, that thirst for adventure Jack very vaguely remembered from the childhood he had mostly forced himself to forget.

Jack looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "Haven't you heard the stories?"

Teague shrugged. "I wanted to hear it from the horse's mouth," he said simply, gesturing at the rum tankard near Jack's hand. "Are you going to drink that or not?"

"Not," Jack replied, nose wrinkled with distaste. He pushed it back to Teague's outstretched hand as though it were a leper's left toe. "If you must know, we did find it, but the Spanish destroyed it."

"Not before you killed Blackbeard," Teague reminded him pointedly.

Jack nodded. "I saved the last few drops for Blackbeard and his two-faced daughter."

"And the mermaid?" Teague leaned forward eagerly; Jack edged back uncomfortably, pulling a face. He couldn't really remember the mermaid that well.

"She was a queer one," he said at last. "Went off with a missionary, if I remember correctly."

Teague leaned forward conspiratorially, one finger outstretched. "I hear tell that you traded Blackbeard's life for his daughter's," he said in low tones.

Jack stiffened and looked down his nose at him. "What's that s'posed to mean?" he demanded sharply.

"You know what I mean," Teague chuckled. "You lied to Blackbeard to spare the girl's life, did you not?"

"I may have gotten the glasses mixed up," Jack said stiffly. "What's it matter? Blackbeard's dead, Angelica's probably dead and buried on her little island in the middle of nowhere. Everyone wins."

"You're on first name terms, I see," Teague commented drily.

Jack glared. "Do you have something to tell me or not?"

"It concerns your little wench," Teague began. "She's not as dead as you thought, it would seem. You're too soft, Jackie- you left her on a well-known trade route. She was picked up and taken back to England. She's a privateer with the East India Trading Company, now, and she's got an awful lot of influence. And she's looking for you."

Jack blinked. It had been much more straightforward than he expected. The news sank in- particularly the last part- and Jack wrinkled his nose in distaste. Teague chuckled in his shadows. "Bloody hell," he hissed through his multi-coloured teeth before standing and scampering away from the bar. Teague offered him a farewell salute; Jack did not return it.

The Pearl's crew had just reached the door when Jack opened it. They looked at him expectantly, but he just made a noise not unlike that a chicken might make and scampered past them, tip-toeing his way back down the muddy hill to the ship. With a collective groan, the crew turned and trudged back after him, the taste of rum that was never to be drank lingering on their tongues as they returned to the rain.

At least the rain had eased up a little, Jack reflected as he scampered down the hill, back to the docks. It would be easier to sail in this weather… But sail where? The seas were wide: it would take some time for Angelica to find him. At the same time, that meant she could be practically anywhere, just as he could be. And the East India Trading Company had its fingers in many pies; there were probably fewer places on land Jack would be able to go freely as he may have once been able to. He could lead Angelica to White Cap Bay and let her crew be devoured by mermaids… But the tower had collapsed, and the chances that he would die and Angelica wouldn't were too high. He could seek shelter from Elizabeth in Singapore… Ho hum. That was a rather good idea, now that he thought about it. In fact, the more he thought about it the better it sounded. Yes, he would go to Singapore. Remind Elizabeth he had saved her life, all those years ago, and also that she had taken his once. He could hide there until… Well, he would figure that out later.

As Jack moved down the pier, he noticed a familiar shape jutting out from the blackness. Perhaps 'familiar' wasn't the best term to use for it; 'vaguely similar to something he may or may not have seen from some distance away in a dream while drunk' may have been better. Jack slowed and cocked his head to one side, screwing up his face and squinting through the downpour to get a better look at this ship. A skeleton figurehead here, some funny-looking pipes sticking out the back, a few ghostly lamps… Rang a few bells here and there, but he just couldn't put his finger on it.

"Forgettin' somethin', Jack?"

Oh, of course. It was the Revenge.

Jack turned on his heel and saw Barbossa standing behind him, leaning lopsidedly on his wooden leg. His weathered face was twisted in a sneer and his beetle black eyes twinkled in dim light. His shoulders twitched at random intervals: letting his eyes travel down, Jack saw a youth of some kind in his arms with a knife pressed to his throat. Through the rain he could vaguely make out a worn tricornered hat that had frankly seen much better days, and beneath that a seemingly never-ending cascade of dark, curly, dripping hair.

If there was ever a cabin boy with that much hair, Jack hadn't yet seen it.

Trying to mask the fact that Jack simply hadn't the foggiest idea what was happening, he flashed a smile in Barbossa's direction. "Evening, Hector. What's with the girl?"

"Give me yer First Mate and she walks," Barbossa replied scathingly.

Jack paused, mouth hanging open, before waving a finger in the wet air. "I'm sorry, I don't quite understand what it is you want."

"Yer First Mate!" Barbossa repeated, frustrated. "He memorised them charts before settin' them on fire durin' that Fountain business. It just so happens that I be needin' them charts about now, but if ye don't give the man ter me I slit her throat!"

Jack was instantly interested. If it was anything Barbossa wanted, he definitely didn't want him to have it. "What are you looking for?" he demanded defensively.

"That be none o' yer business," Barbossa spat.

"Alright, if that's how you feel," Jack said huffily, turning away. "But if you don't tell me I won't give him to you."

Barbossa tightened his hold on the struggling girl. "If you don't give him to me she gets the chop."

Jack flashed another grin and held up his bandaged hands. "Go ahead, mate. I don't know her."

Barbossa held her tighter, forcing her to stand a little straighter. "She claims to be yer daughter," he said cautiously.

Jack's mouth swung open and he stared, completely speechless for what may well be the first time in his life. The girl looked up, raising the dark brown eyes embedded in a nicely tanned face framed by soaking wet curls, plastered to either side. Her teeth glinted wolfishly in the little light that looked down on the odd trio.

"Hello, Dad," she grinned.