So I haven't wrote a fic in about a hundred years, so here goes nothin'! A little out of my comfort zone, but I'm having fun nonetheless. This is a Jack Sparrow/OC story, featuring Jack and my OC, Zoe Ricci. This starts wayyyyy before the movies. Directly after Jack was branded with the 'P' by Cutler Beckett. I'm not sure of the exact context and way it all played out, so this is my version! So Jack is not totally the goofy and silly movie Jack yet, so he may seem a little OOC, but that's because I'm developing all of the time we never saw before the moves. So, ANYWAY, I had to give Jack some love, as he's been one of my favorite characters for a long time. Short, I know, but if you enjoy, I will have the next one ready soon!

Please no rude comments/complaints, but let me know if you like it.

Enjoy!

Chapter 1

The morgue was cold.

At least, it felt that way to Zoe Ricci as she stood, watching the mortician finish dressing her pale, cold mother for the last time. Tears stung her bright blue eyes as she watched, and the mousy-looking man clasped his hands in front of him and bowed his head towards Zoe.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Miss. Is there anything else I can do to make her departure more comfortable for you?"

"No. Thank you. The plot is in the town cemetery, just east of the village." Zoe murmured. The mortician nodded.

"Yes ma'am. The site should be prepared soon."

"Thank you."

Twenty-two year old Zoe walked through the main walk of the village quietly, blonde hair blowing in the soft Caribbean breeze. She was alone. Mother dead, and a father whom she had never met. Her mother had been a seamstress, with boundless talent who was loved by everyone in the Port who had their clothing made by her. They had sailed to Port Nassau in the Caribbean to start a new life after their small coastal village in Italy was attacked by some sort of pirate group. Though Zoe's mother had been a purely Italian women, her mother explained that her Father had been Prussian, hence her blonde hair and blue eyes that were so out of place from her Italian name. The two of them had run their shop together; Zoe delivered most of the articles, while her mother hemmed and stitched.

As she found her way back to the front of her and her mother's shop and house, Zoe gave a forced smile to the old woman who lived next to them, and pushed the door open. She was greeted with the familiar sight of clothes, which hung from racks and every possible space in the house. Small pieces of parchment were tacked to each one with a name scrawled on it. Zoe had no idea what to do now that her mother was gone. It was unexpected and random, with no explanation. Two days prior, the seemingly healthy and upbeat woman was found dead on the main walk, after she had set out to deliver a dress earlier in the evening. Smiling gently, Zoe brushed a hand over the material of a dress that hung closely to the makeshift table in the corner, where a loaf of bread sat untouched. She reached out to break off a piece, when a sudden feeling of dread hit her.

It wasn't the normal dread. It was the kind that something- somebody, was watching her. Scared and almost trembling, Zoe turned around. "Hello?"

A pained sigh replied, and Zoe grabbed the small knife that lay beside the bread. She advanced towards the pile of garments in which the sound originated, and kicked a foot out, sending a pair of trousers across the room, but revealing the source of the sound. There was a man, around her age, hiding under a pile of clothes. In her house.

He was around her age, with tan skin and thick black hair that was long and dreaded, a bandanna wrapped around his forehead to prevent it from falling into his face.

"What in the bloody hell are you doing in my house?!"

Jack Sparrow had ran.

Beckett had caught him, sank his ship, and branded him. He had nothing left. His right wrist was still throbbing, the fresh brand causing his skin to stick to everything that came in contact with it. He had just liberated almost a thousand slaves from Cutler Beckett and the East India Trading Company while working for them. But, his decision impeded upon their money, and it cost him his job, his ship, and rewarded him with a painful brand. Jack had morals though. He couldn't transport slaves. He could not ignore the cries of pain and the pleads for help. It was horrific.

After his run in with Beckett after liberating the slaves, Jack had escaped to Port Nassau, and ran as far into the town as he could, with the fear of being followed too great to ignore. And he ended up under a pile of clothes, in some small house that obviously belonged to tailor. He was in pain, exhausted, and just wanted to sleep. And at twenty-five years old, he felt like he was going on ninety.

Drifting off to sleep, Jack felt a sense of peace fall upon him, until a small voice invaded his personal bubble and he snapped back awake.

"What the bloody hell are you doing in my house?"

Jack looked up at the perpetrator, eyes widening in surprise. It was a girl, around his age, with long blonde hair and light blue eyes. She had on a plain cotton dress, and looked terrified.

"This is your house?" He asked, sitting up. She pointed the tiny knife at him, and he raised his eyebrows. "Luv, if you're gonna stab someone, you're going to need a bigger- ow." Jack stopped suddenly as a wave of pain washed across his side. "I'm afraid you're not the first one to threaten me with a weapon today, though."

The girl tilted her head. "You're hurt."

Jack shook his head. "Just a scratch, I'll be fine."

"Why are you hiding in my house?" She demanded, pointing the knife at him again.

"I was running from some bad people." He answered plainly, putting a finger on the tip of the knife in her hand and pushing it down. "But I'm not bad."

"What's your name?"

"Jack Sparrow. And you?" Jack normally wouldn't give his real name out on such a free basis, but he knew this girl couldn't bring him any harm. She looked scared as a mouse, her hand with the knife quivering.

"Zoe. But you need to leave. Now." She stated. Jack hung his head.

"I suppose," Jack managed to get his feet under him and stand, only to feel a rush of heat in his head. "Oh, now that is-s a new feeling." He swayed, but not with his normal drunkenness. "Uh-oh."

Jack keeled over, his tan face losing the rosiness as all the blood drained from it. He hit the ground with a thud, and Zoe gasped.

"No, no, no. I can't deal with this right now." Zoe muttered to herself. "Maybe I can take him to the constable?"

She debated her options, watching the man on the ground in front of her. He said bad people were after him. What if the bad people saw them together? What if she was hurt? Zoe bit her lip, before kneeling down next to the man.

"Mr. Sparrow? Hello?" She said aloud, gently tapping his cheek. No response was given, and Zoe furrowed her eyebrows. She could let him stay.

But what if he hurt her?

Zoe looked back towards the little bedroom that her mother and her had shared, and sighed. "Why must I have a heart like this?"

She couldn't just throw him outside. He could be killed, and Zoe didn't think she could handle another death at the moment, even if she had just met him. But she didn't feel like he would do her any harm. Of course, there was no way to know for sure, but he was also hurt, which gave her the upper hand.

Shaking her head, she grasped his hands, and pulled with as much strength as she could muster. Jack didn't even flinch, still unresponsive. Zoe pulled, and slowly walked towards the bedroom, where she managed to deposit his limp body onto one of the beds.

"Good Lord. What am I doing?" She muttered. Zoe glanced down at Jack again, squinting her eyes as she noticed a large discoloration around his right wrist. Biting her lip again- what a bad habit that was- she reached down, turning his muscled arm over. On the inside of his arm, she first noticed a tattoo of a sparrow on the horizon. Thought the tattoo wasn't what drew her attention; a raw, red and black wound was visible, the skin peeling, with dirt speckled through it. It was bleeding around the edges, and Zoe covered her mouth with the other hand.

It was brand. Like the brand they used to put on their cattle in Italy. It was too swollen and infected looking to decipher what had been branded, thought Zoe had never heard of such a torture before.

"Oh my-"

"Not a pretty sight, is it?"