I began writing for my own entertainment. I'll be thrilled, however, to hear that others have enjoyed this piece as well. =)
As for the story:
As far as I know, no one has made any serious attempt at putting down the life of Jack Sparrow before he succeeded in making an infamous name for himself in the Caribbean. Hopefully, I've stayed truthful to the character. Um.. Also, this is not a slash, and will not develope into one. Slashes peeve me for some reason.. Especially those that are undeniably sacrilegious to a character. Seriously, people: who really believes that Jack Sparrow is the romantic type? I'm not promising that some delicate situations will not arise later in the story(thus the rating, but I promise violence as well >P), but I will assure you that I'm doing my best in preserving our protagonist's persona.
Disclaimer: I do not own "Pirates of the Caribbean," Jack Sparrow, or any other PotC characters who may eventually make their way into this tale. Also, most of the places and ships named in the story are fictional as well. It probably wouldn't hurt to do more research, but.. I'm too lazy. Maybe later. >)
"Not Much is known about Jack Sparrow before he showed up in Tortuga with a mind to go after the treasure of the Isla de Muerta" ~ Joshamee Gibbs to William Turner
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It was a fair day indeed; a handsome respite from the past bleak weeks which had bred some of the most fearsome weather in half a decade. The faces of seafaring men still reflected the gloom. Excluding, perhaps, the boy.
There he had lain, resembling for all the world some lanky and disreputable doll made up to resemble a cabin boy and folded carelessly into a corner with a dry mop across his lap. It may be, of course, entirely feasible that the corners of his mouth were not turned permanently upward in that toothily blissful grin; but not likely. He snorts, lips smacking in harmonious discord with the violent new onslaught of snores issuing from his person. Not likely at all.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor, followed shortly by a shadow. A man shape turned into the doorway, squinting into the uninterrupted shadows cast through the room's interior. A match flared into life, revealing the sallow white-whiskered moon of a human face. Ambling drunkenly through the door frame, he called hoarsely,
"Boy?" Brow furrowing, he felt his way to the compartment's sole furnishing(aside from the neat row of cells along the far wall): a scarred, stained, and altogether thoroughly abused oak desk. Dropping the spent light and striking a new one, he bent to light the untouched tallow candle resting upon its uneven surface. Craning his neck, the sailor cast an eye about the brig. Unsatisfied and grumbling scarcely audible profanities under his breath, he shuffled grumpily to the cell at the far starboard side, occupying the only corner not touched by the candle's flickering glow. A figure was sprawled there; Snow-Whiskers paused momentarily.
"UP!" He roared, driving the toes of his navy issued boots into the shoddily smithed enclosure in turn, driving up a storm of fiercely rattling bars.
"Eh," a groggy voice declared, "I was only resting me eyes, mate."
"Tha's 'sir,' laddie," the man growls, indulging himself in a brazen and noticeably rum-taunted belch, "I'd get started a'fore someone decides to tan your hide, whelp. Not all th' crew are as lenient as meself," he grinned, "As you should know by now." At this, the owner of the second voice rose, lurching and wincing into the light with mop handle in tow. As the figure lifted its face to the candle's illumination, the youth was revealed in full; for that was what he was, little more than a scrawny child. The mildly drunken expression of glee is quick to relight his face; dopy grin and gleaming eyes put on the finishing shine, mate.
"My appologies, sir," he had circled almost casually to the man's right, "but I've other plans for the evening, savvy?" The final syllable was accompanied by a grunt as the youth hoisted the mop shaft up and over, the arch finishing at the base of Whiskers' skull. Gurgling incoherently, the old sailor sagged heavily into the floorboards before falling silent.
He stood, motionless. Never, in the wildest fantasies of his nigh-fifteen years(it could have been fourteen or even sixteen, not even he was certain), could he have imagined the thing coming off so effortlessly. Cackling nervously at his good fortune, the boy relinquished his weapon and heaved the unfortunate heap into the nearest cell before turning the key in the lock, skipping fluidly through the door, and reattaching himself to the shadows.
I realize it's a weak start. It'll pick up. I promise. =)