Wow, I'm actually updating!

Despite the long hiatus between this chapter and the last, I do intend on continuing this story, so don't get discouraged! School just came back and hit me real hard, but I hope to keep that more under control in the future.

A big thank you to my reviewers so far! You're actually the reason I pulled this back out and forced myself to write in it again, because I knew there were at least a few people who were waiting on another chapter.

Enjoy!

Chapter 3

Captain Sparrow was drunk, belligerent, and refusing to give up the helm. He recognized all this, of course, but was taking a small dose of delight in his crew's pleas to let someone else take the wheel. He, however, was not going to be pried off the helm of the Pearl until the rum was gone or he was passed out. Not after what it had cost to get her back.

"Mister Gibbs," Jack hiccupped, "Would you be so good as to get your fine captain another bottle? Mine seems to have gotten lost, somehow." He narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the deck of the Pearl, as if wondering if the ship had taken his rum from him herself.

Gibbs fidgeted his fingers. "Cap'n, it is gettin' awfully late. Maybe you could wait a while for your next bottle, and get some sleep, instead?"

The captain smiled and pointed one wavering hand at Gibbs. "Very clever, Mister Gibbs, very clever indeed. Sleep is almost as blissful of ignorance as rum itself, but sleep has that unfortunate consequence of having to dream, and I for one am not too keen on slipping into reverie at the present moment. So if you'll jus' let me drink my way into oblivion, I can wake up in a day or two completely delirium-free, what say you to that?"

Gibbs sighed. The ship carried onwards rather unevenly over the Caribbean waves. "To be honest, Cap'n, I'm not sure you'll ever be delirium-free."

Jack felt a little taken aback. "Why, Mister Gibbs, what a thing to say to your captain, particularly when he is such a delicate state? Fortunately for you, I am an honorable and forgiving man, so your punishment will be of a non-life-threatening nature. If you go down below deck right now and bring me up some more rum, why, I believe we can forget this whole conversation ever transpired." He grinned roguishly at his first mate, in a last ditch attempt to appeal to his better nature. Surely, Gibbs wanted his captain to be happy, did he not?

Sea-spray cascaded over the edge of the deck in the night. Gibbs glanced back at the noise for a moment, and Jack took the opportunity to snatch the man's flask from off his belt, shoving it behind his back before Gibbs turned around again.

"Alright, Cap'n, now what did y'do?" Gibbs asked, accusingly.

"Wot?" Jack replied with as much innoncence as he could muster. "I've jus' been steerin', I have. But seein' as yer bein' so quick to judge yer own captain tonight, you can consider yourself dismissed from deck." Jack began to shoo him away with his unhidden hand. "Go on then. Away wif you." He lurched forward a little at another uneven wave and grabbed the helm once again.

Always faithful, Gibbs's expression changed to one of guilt and he shuffled down the wooden stairs without any more questions or advice. Jack grinned as he watched his loyal first mate disappear below deck, then brought around Gibbs's flask and took a long swig.

The weather was clear that night, he finally had the Black Pearl back, and with the amount of rum Jack had in his system, by all rights he should have been in a very good mood. However, Jack Sparrow was in a foul mood. He felt outsmarted. He felt angry. But the worst of his troubles at that moment was actually due to an emotion he did not usually experience: Captain Jack Sparrow felt sad.

"Captain, I've got some bad news fer ya

Jack remembered that sentence clearly, uttered three days earlier by Mister Gibbs as they sat in Tortuga awaiting the arrival of Barbossa and his crew in secret.

"I've jus' gotten word from some of my contacts in town that…well, Jack, there's no use in puttin' off what needs to be said: Captain Teague's been murdered."

Jack took another long swig from Gibbs's flask and ran his hand down his face. The deck was rocking back and forth in front of his eyes at rather a perpendicular direction to how the waves were driving it. Instead of the take-on-the-world attitude rum usually left him with, Jack felt uncertain, and the memories of the past few days did nothing to help that.

"Yer father's dead, Jack."

Jack frowned, wrinkling his forehead. "Now that sentence wasn't from a memory," he said out loud to no one in particular.

"That's because I'm not from a memory. Look down here, Jack," the voice called.

The captain glanced down towards the flask in his hands. Around it, a miniature version of himself was holding onto its straps. Again, really?He thought to himself, but went along with the delusion anyway.

"Well, 'ello there! Long time no see, eh?" Jack said brightly, raising the flask up to face mini-Jack at eye level.

"Alright, Jack, time to explain yerself," the tiny pirate said, pointing an accusing finger at Jack's nose.

"Explain meself?" Jack tried to convey puzzlement, but seeing as him and the tiny man on the flask were really the same person, it was a rather moot point to try and feign ignorance at what mini-Jack meant.

Mini-Jack placed his free hand on his hip. "Yes. Yer bein' a right lily-livered addlepate, you are."

Jack frowned at the tiny pirate. "Addlepate? I assure you, there is nothing addled about me. Quite the contrary, as I've finally got me ship back from that bloody mutinous Barbossa, I'm in complete control. "

"Then why all the rum, mate?" mini-Jack smirked.

After some valiant efforts, the captain quickly discovered that his rambling excuses were no match for himself, even if this rascal's brain was the size of a gnat. Jack finally frowned, picking at a splintered section of the wheel in defeat. "Dad's dead." He said, casting his eyes down to avoid looking at the smaller version of himself.

"Yes, I did mention that, if you recall," mini-Jack said somewhat heartlessly.

He swung the flask up to take a swig, ignoring the shrieks from the tiny pirate who suddenly found himself thrust through the night air. "Oh, stop being such a shiverin' codpiece," he told the miniature captain, clambering to hold on. "Now what's the meanin' of you comin' into my head on what was otherwise a fine evening, and startin' up all this addle-this and addle-that nonesense, eh?"

"I'll be perfectly clear, then mate," mini-Jack said, obviously miffed. He straightened his bandana and got a firmer grip on the leather strap. "Why aren't you sailin' to Isla Ocultado?"

Jack choked a bit on his last swallow of rum.

Mini-Jack grinned knowingly. "Tha's right, Jack. I know all about yer father's will. He made a deal with you, and all you could think about was yer precious Pearl."

"I," Jack argued a bit unsteadily, "Am merely takin' time off to honor his memory. Can't say anythin' wrong with that, now, eh?"

"Oh really?" mini-Jack said. "An' this is how you honor yer late father's memory, is it? By becomin' a rum-soaked drunken blaggard who trades his father's ship away and then has the gall to ignore his last request?"

The captain did not miss a beat. "Ah, but I'm not ignoring," Jack pointed out, a grin returning. "I'm postponing."

No response came from the man on the strap of the nearly empty flask. The waves began to lurch the Pearl around even more than before. Captain Sparrow tried to ignore the tunnel vision, which was not too hard to do since he was already in the dark out on the ocean. Mini-Jack scratched his matted head, as if that would help him come up with another argument. Just when Jack was sure the tiny pirate was ready to give up, the little scamp piped up again.

"Alright. I'll leave you to a clean conscience if you can tell me one reason why you are not sailin' to Isla Ocultado to carry out the task yer father left fer you."

Jack blinked, which took a surprising amount of effort as the last bit of rum soaked into his blood stream. He raised one hand as if to use it to emphasize whatever he was just about to say, but then the tunnel vision began to take completely over.

"Jack," mini-Jack said sternly, slapping him on the knuckle. "I won't let you pass out until you give me a satisfactory answer, savvy?"

"Wot?" Jack said, the world coming into focus once again. "I have ev'ry intention on givin' you yer answer. However, me brain seems to have misplaced a few of the words I would need to make my answer truly worth yer time, so if you'll excuse me…"

"JACK."

A sharp prick to the back of his hand forced the captain to look back down at the flask once again. Mini-Jack swayed on the strap, brandishing a tiny sword.

"Fine, fine. You win, okay?" Jack sighed, and was pleasantly surprised to find his sense of smell was still in focus enough to pick up the alcohol on his breath. "I haven't done what I be needin' to do yet." Swallowing hard, he did his best to continue comprehensible sentences. "I need to get my name out, live in infamy, be written about in the stars, you get the general idea." He waved one hand around vaguely.

Mini-Jack seemed to live for smug remarks. "And giving the map to the farthest gate to Barbossa fits in that plan…how?"

Jack resisted the urge to flick the tiny pirate into the sea. "I didn't give him the map. The bloody swindler conned me out of it, and you can bet your Aunt Fanny that I won't be surrendering it in any permanent fashion to that phantasmic swine. Once I get it back, my real plan will commence, savvy? The name 'Captain Jack Sparrow' has not properly impressed itself upon history just yet, and I will not go down under the name Teague."

The efforts of that last speech finally claimed the captain's consciousness, and mini-Jack allowed himself to vanish with Jack's cognizance.

The past week had been a real eye-opener for the young William Turner. He always knew being a hero was a hard job, but he had no idea one had to be so secretive about it. Nobody was allowed to know what they were up to, Master Hobbins made that point very clear. It had been four days, and Will had not been allowed out of the inn they were staying at, for fear of somebody recognizing him. Will tried to reassure Master Hobbins that he would know a bad guy when he saw one, but Master Hobbins was very adamant that he stay put.

To make up for the confinement, Master Hobbins had given Will a rather large dagger to practice some self defense with, since it "looked like ye be needin' some practice, with those dockside bilgerats chasin' ye down". After then bashfully admitting to being chased by Tommy and his gang at least a couple of times every week, Will's new friend was quick to come up with a solution. Despite not being very sharp, Master Hobbins assured Will that his dagger would still do the trick in a pinch.

"Ye don' need it to kill them boys," he had said to Will, grinning like a fool. "All ye has to do is threaten to chop of a finger or two." Master Hobbins had wiggled his left hand's finger stubs in Will's face then for effect. It always made the boy flinch, and always made Master Hobbins laugh.

They two had struck up on odd sort of friendship over the past few days. Master Hobbins had to be out on the town for most of the daylight hours, but by nightfall he would always return with some bread and cheese for supper. Will would give him updates on his progress vanquishing invisible foes, and Master Hobbins would in turn regale Will with tales of his own foe-fighting days. It seemed that the strange eight-fingered man led quite the adventurous life, and Will was keen to join in. The ideas of chasing enemies down on the high seas like Master Hobbins had done filled the boy's mind during the lonely days in the inn. Unfortunately though, his imagination could not keep out the harsh reality of his situation for as long as Will hoped it would.

Will missed his mother terribly. He had never been away from her for this long before, and not knowing where she was scared him a great deal. Master Hobbins seemed worried, too, though he tried not to show it in front of the boy. However, whenever Will mentioned his mother or their mission to save her, Master Hobbins seemed to get a pained expression in his eyes. This did not comfort young Will one bit.

He tried to put his fears into energy for dagger practice. Since Master Hobbins was not around for much of the time, Will had to make up practice exercises for himself. He would swing the dagger around through the air, imagining how to get it past opponents that were not there. He would throw it at a wooden table overturned on its side, which he had carved a big X onto as a target the first day. Sometimes he would then just practice pulling it out of its sheath without it getting caught, which happened embarrassingly often.

What Will really wanted was a sword. He knew all proper heroes had a sword. But Master Hobbins did not have a spare sword, so he had to settle for the dagger. Master Hobbins did promise, though, that if he learned how to use the dagger well, he could graduate to a sword given time.

As the creaky inn door opened that night, Will was bursting at the seams. "Master Hobbins! Master Hobbins! Guess what I did? You'll never guess!"

The scruffy looking gentlemen laughed and ruffled the boy's hair. "An' what be it ye did today, Will? Have ye fought off another troop of ogres, or did ye get the banshees this time?" he asked, kicking off his muddy boots to the corner, and coming inside to get the fire going stronger.

"No, no, better than that!" Will ran over to the target practice table. "Look! I got my dagger to hit the X from all the way back there!" Will pointed farther back in the room, then ran to the spot he had his earlier success at, beaming at the blond bearded man.

"Why, Will, tha's got to be a whole ten feet back! Well done, lad!" Master Hobbins congratulated him.

Will's spirits soared. William the Great has honed his dagger skills to a level beyond all reckoning. Even the infamous Hobbins the Magnificent could not deny that his talent surpassed all before him. "Does that mean I get to have a sword now?" he asked eagerly, running back over to a non-flipped table where Master Hobbins was laying out their bread.

The firelight danced on Master Hobbins face as he shook his head sadly again. "Not yet, Will. Someday, I promise ye."

Will cast his eyes down to the dusty floor. While he had suspected as much of an answer, the boy had so little to hope for at the moment, that even this small blow threatened to be too much to handle. Tears began welling up in his eyes.

Master Hobbins frowned. "Hey, now, what's all that about, eh?" He raised Will's chin up with his good hand. The young Turner boy did his best to blink back his tears. "Heroes don't cry, lad. Especially not over somethin' so triflin' as a new sword. Now, ye jus' be hungry, I'm sure tha's the real trouble, right?" He set a slice of cheese down on Will's plate and ushered him up into his chair. Will's spirits were not raised one bit by the man's attempts at consolation.

How am I supposed to be a proper hero when I don't even get to practice at being one? The boy thought, worried. He nibbled at his cheese like a nervous house mouse waiting for the cat. The fire which had seemed bright moments ago was dimming fast, and a cold breeze crept through the room for one of the broken window panes.

"Anyway," Master Hobbins continued, taking a large chunk of bread in his cavity-ridden mouth. "Ibehafsogunoosf'ee."

Will frowned, mid-chew. "What?"

The older man swallowed and took a swig of ale. "Ahem. I said I be havin' some good news fer ye." Master Hobbins paused for dramatic effect, his eyes twinkling. "How'd ye like to get away from this town and out onta' the seas, mate?"

The boy nearly fell off his chair in excitement. "What?! Really? When?"

"Tomorrow," Master Hobbins replied, grinning at the boy's abrupt change in mood. "I finally got us a ship out of here. We set sail at dawn fer the Caribbean, and fer yer Cap'n Jack Sparrow."

Will got up off the floor and began hopping up and down, dust clouds billowing at his feet. "Yes! Let's go! I'm ready to save Mum!"

Master Hobbins gave a hearty laugh. "Glad to hear it, mate!" He finished his last swig of ale and stood up, slamming the cup down and walking over to pull Will's dagger out of the X. "Now, let's get ye some real practice in before heading to bed. Who knows how soon ye will be havin' to know how to use one of these 'gainst more 'n a table an' thin air."