Storyline: Jack and Will off on usual pirating pillages (sorry Elizabeth Swann fans - this story has no real mention of her. It was originally a story written without POTC in mind, but I found I was increasingly portraying my characters with the habits and mannerisms of Jack and Will, so I decided I had nothing to lose except all my millions in a defamationand/or copywritelawsuit) When Jack meets a high-spirited lass in the local gaol, he thinks nothing of it, until she is in the lineup as one of his new crew-members. Everything's smooth sailing (if you'll excuse the pun) until Jack steps on a few of the Navy men's toes,makes enemies with some very powerful pirates, and finds out he's been accused of kidnapping some cousin to the Queen. To top it all off, a ghost ship with a crew Jack thought he'sput his rudder to a long time ago has suddenly returned, and the price Jack has to pay to be rid of its company may be higher than he's willing to pay.The crew of this ship are no scurvy, half-rottenedpirates - they're damned maidens, and they'll not beneath using their looks and wiles to murder unwitting men to break their curse. Are Jack and Will going to be their next happlessvictims to their sacrifice?

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. Never. Ever. Unless I buy the rights off Walt Disney. Which I wont do. Partially because he's dead. Mainly because I don't have the money.

Captain Jacques 'Jack' Sparrow woke groggily and disoriented on what felt like a cold stone floor. As this was a fairly regular occurrence for the pirate, he thought nothing of his present state, and instead drew his attentions to the occurrences of the night before. He stretched his cramped muscles out and drew his hands behind his head and contemplated his last known actions. A small smile played on his tanned face as he recalled the tavern. That booze was something else alright. What did they put in that rum? A friendly atmosphere and exactly what every pirate could ever want. In fact, it catered for all men, not just of the pirate profession. And that lass. She was something alright. Then his brow creased in a slight frown. So was that punch. Jack thought as he visibly grimaced. Why do all the good ones have to be taken? Furthermore, why do they all have to be taken by hard fisted, quick tempered oafs with no sense of humour? Jack sighed. No matter. A pirate's life for me, through and through. He was still in considerably good spirits, that is, until he attempted to move. The pain in his head was unmatched from any of his previous hangovers. Bloody hell and hang the virgins! What did they put in that rum? Slowly Jack sank his head back onto the cold stone. But it was a feeble gesture; his head still pounded. He closed his kohl-lined eyes in resignation.

Jack Sparrow was not your average pirate. Certainly, there are some traits that none of that particular profession can escape. He smelled of sea salt and sweat, of sandalwood, gunpowder and adventure. His face was tanned and his clothes were on the worn side, stiff with salt and the leather soft from wear, same as any other common pirate. And he loved his rum. But that was where all similarities between he and other pirates ended. Jack's face held no weary fine lines that the sea often left on men's faces. His face was not craggy, but slightly weathered. At his late thirties or extremely early forties, it appeared that Jack had reached the age where it seemed he would age no more. It was as if the fresh sea air had preserved his appearance like the sands did to the mummies in Egypt. Only, Jack wasn't dead and rotted and covered in bandages. Except for a recent one over his tender ribs, from a most unfortunate accident with a bayonet and a Red Coat as he was being 'escorted' down to his cell…

As Captain Jack Sparrow lay on the unforgiving stone floor of his miserable cell, he ran a calloused hand through his dark beard in contemplation, his thoughts leagues elsewhere. His beard was not the straggly ring of mange and whiskers most pirates kept, but it had been divided and braided, with the braids ending in small jaded beads and gold trinkets. His moustache he managed to keep reasonably short and tidy. His hair was a mass of dreadlocks, plaits and unruly waves, with several locks of hair woven with other trinkets such as a light gold medallion, a length of bone and several precious stones. His 'grooming' was thanks to a very grateful African tribe, and in respect Jack had never once changed his hair. And to be on the safe side, he never took a brush to it either. It had become his trade-mark, and as he strode purposefully onto the docks or into a tavern, his hair chinked and the gold winked mysteriously. Each trinket woven into his hair had a special significance, but no-one had dared ask the famous Captain. A red bandana kept his hair from falling over his face in the most crucial of times, and his battered tricorn hat was more often than not perched jauntily on his head. If in times of trouble, it was angled down further, casting dark shadows over his high cheek bones and darkening his liquid chocolate eyes to a stormy, dangerous cavernous black. In short, Captain Jack Sparrow looked far too handsome to be a pirate, and far too unsavoury to be a gentleman.

So why was he here? He thought to himself in his reverie. Most pirates take on a life of the sea - the pillaging and the plundering - because they have little choice. To them, it was a means to gold, glory and girls. To Jack and very few others, pirating was freedom. On his ship, he could challenge a storm, race the dolphins, taunt the Navy and Davey Jones himself with no worry of the consequences. His crew were his comrades; as loyal as brothers, and the scent of adventure was always carried on the breeze. Even the threat of the Navy was a thrill, not a worry. Let them capture the foolish pirates and have their pompous to-do's at governors' estates. True pirates like him would never be trapped by cell bars or contained by four walls of a house; their adventure could never be quelled. He was Captain Jack Sparrow. Adventure-bound. Ageless. Mysterious. Weary-less. Invincible. Invincible, save the aching of his side and the throbbing of his head.

Hang on, he thought. That thumping's not in my head. He opened his eyes again, taking in the sights around him. Stone floor, stone wall, stone roof, iron bars. They should give me full-time membership. Jack thought. Gaols had become his second home, after pubs and taverns. Slowly Jack Sparrow sat up, easing his bruised ribs. The pounding still continued from, Jack sourced, the cell next to him. Splendid; a cell mate. Jack thought sarcastically. Just what he needed at the moment. Either a whiney, scared youth quaking in his boots or an old drunkard, spinning tales of his whisky-dulled exploits. "Shut up!" He cried, losing his cool entirely.

"Begging pardons." Came the short reply. The voice was neither whiney nor slurred. In fact, it sounded… female. He cautiously peered around the wooden pillar that had kept him hidden from view thus far. There, sitting on the hard wooden bench that could also serve as a bed was a lass, about Elizabeth's age, bouncing a hardened leather ball against the stone wall. Jack watched intrigued, as she performed some fairly complicated manoeuvres, from switching hands to different throws, catching it from angles and rebounds. No doubt she was a good toss with a die in a gambling game or two. Handy to have about, Jack thought. But not in the present state of affairs.

"As much as it is a pretty remarkable thing luv, no matter how many times you throw it, it's certain to return." He remarked gently.

"You don't say?" Came the sarcastic retort. "Sorry." The girl apologised almost immediately. "But it's fairly important I do this." Crazy as a cut serpent, Jack surmised

"Okay." Jack sighed slowly, dropping the matter with a dismissive, "Whatever floats your boat darling." For several minutes silence reigned, only to be disturbed by the leather ball's constant thumping.

So what's a lass like you doing here?" Jack finally asked, his curiosity getting the best of him. Mad people were always interesting to talk to, so he might as well make the most of it. It gave one a different perspective on life.

"On holiday, as it were," came the harsh sarcastic reply. Perhaps not so daft as originally anticipated. Mind you, she was daft enough to be in a hell-hole like this… That being said, so was he. But he was Captain Jack Sparrow. And she was… just a bored rich lass, out for a good night that ended badly.

"This isn't the place for fun and games luv." Lectured Jack, "I've seen many a rich girl like you come down to mingle with the common folk, have a bit of an adventure, and find themselves in places far worse than this at the end of the day."

"I know that." She barked, and then laughed, meanwhile still bouncing and catching the blasted leather ball of hers. "But I'd hardly call my current financial status 'rich.'" She replied darkly. She glanced over at him, intrigued. "So I had you fooled then?" She asked.

"You're – you're not a noble-lady?" Jack questioned in surprise. He considered himself somewhat an expert on picking people, and he was certain she belonged to the upper-class, and her wearing a dress at the present time did nothing to dispel his assumption. She possessed a refined air, a real sense of class, and although she was every bit as dishevelled and dirty as Jack, she still seemed a class above him. He regarded her thoughtfully. She had a porcelain complexion that many women strived to obtain, yet her arms were as tanned as his. Her fingers were long and her nails were clean and shapely. The fingernails were usually a dead give-away of class. Her hair was a honey blonde, but streaked lighter from the sun. Her eyes were a cornflower blue, and at the moment they were dancing with mischief, mocking him.

"No." She confirmed after a period. "I usually dress in breeches and a shirt, but for my certain…role last night, it required I wear something more…refined. Of course, this cursed marshmallow of a cloth would be the reason I got caught." She divulged nothing further, and resumed her assault on the wall with renewed vigour. Jack had to hand it to her; the entire time they'd been talking she had neither dropped the ball nor slackened her pace. She hadn't moved from her perch either. The ball flew into her hand as if attached by a string. Her small victory came at a price, however; Jack could see small cuts where rough and hardened edges of the ball had caught her.

"Luv," he began gently, "what are you really doing?"

"I told you," she said irritably, "Escaping."

Will Jack escape from his new form of hell? Will Will rescue him? Where is Will, for that matter? Review and Tune in next week to find out.