Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue. Pretty please?
Chapter One
"Truth? No truth at all."
Jack walked quickly across the hot sand, measuring out his paces carefully. One, two. That annoying girl followed behind him, nagging him about trying to save Will. It was hopeless to even hope to rescue him and she just refused to see it. Not a chance. Three, four, five. Finally. He jumped up and down on the sand, noting the way it sank fractionally under his weight. Excellent. He hadn't been sure he would be able to find it again. Elizabeth said something that forced him to face the grim facts. "How did you escape last time?" she asked angrily. "Last time?" he repeated bitterly, "Last time, I was here for a grand total of three days, alright?" She could have no idea what it cost his pride to say that out loud. She stared at him, disbelieving. "Last time," he said, throwing open the trapdoor that led down to the rumrunners' hideout, scattering sand and grass everywhere, "The rumrunners who used this island as a cache came by and I was able to barter passage off." "From the looks of things," he continued into the dark, sandy hole, "They've long been out of business. We probably have your bloody friend, Norrington, to thank for that." One deeply tanned hand emerged, triumphantly holding a bottle aloft. Filled with rum, of course. Elizabeth seemed on the verge of tears. "So that's it, then," she said resentfully, "That's the secret, grand adventure of the infamous Jack Sparrow." She bit off each word slowly and distinctly, making him feel her anger, "You spent three days lying on a beach, drinking rum." Jack considered all possible responses to her irate incredulity, then picked the one that came easiest to him. "Welcome to the Caribbean, love," he said. He edged passed her, pressing a bottle of rum into her hand. She glared at it a moment and then followed. She found him standing on the beach looking out at the sea. "Is there no truth to the other stories?" she asked furiously. "Truth?" Jack asked dangerously, eyes narrowing. He pulled up a sleeve of his baggy shirt, exposing the 'P' branded into the top of his right wrist. 'P' for pirate. He pushed back the other sleeve, where a network of old scars snaked up his wrist, souvenirs from a past battle. Pulling open the neck of his white shirt revealed a pair of bullet holes, mere inches apart, where someone had twice shot and almost killed him. That man hadn't survived for a third shot. "No truth at all."