"But Captain, I want to come along! I want to help!"

Will trailed behind a stalking Barbossa, doggedly following him fore and aft despite repeated threats of a whipping. He simply refused to spend another raid battened down on the Pearl, bored and completely useless while the crew made their fortunes on foreign shores or foreign decks.

"For the last time, Will, no!" Barbossa thundered, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"But –"

He caught a flash of bared yellowed teeth as Barbossa spun, surprisingly quick, and grabbed him by the shoulders. Hauling Will in front of him, he grabbed Will's chin and forced his head straight so that he was staring at three bodies hanging next to a sign meant to warn away pirates. Will grit his teeth at the pain in his neck, but remained still, Barbossa's other hand gripping his arm hard enough to bruise.

"See that, boy?"

"Aye," said Will, gasping as Barbossa twisted his arm painfully.

"An' what might it be?"

"Dead men," said Will, his defiant shoulders slumping as he realized what Barbossa was getting at.

The captain's breath raised little hairs on his neck. "Right ye are. Dead as dead can be – dead like we cannot be, and you can. I'll not waste a single one o' me men keepin' an eye on a foolish half-pint."

"I don't need to be looked after," Will muttered seditiously. Barbossa loosened his grip, but gave him a little shake.

"Need or no, you be mortal," he said. He turned, the anger clearing from his eyes, and smiled. "Have we an understanding, William?"

Will cast his eye down to his scuffed boots, resentment simmering deep down where the captain could not see it. "We do." Barbossa cleared his throat and Will added, "Sir."

Barbossa clapped him on the back. "We'll be sure to fetch ye somethin' especially special," he said with an unreadable wink that Will noticed, but was too unhappy to puzzle over. He knocked shoulders on his way across the ship, tugging at the chestnut curls that had come undone while he'd pursued Barbossa all over the ship.

"Cheer up, mate," said Jacoby sympathetically. "'Ere, I'll leave ye a few o' me grenades t' toss at gulls."

Will made a face, but thanked him anyway. He found himself a free spot at the railing and dug his nails into the wood, silently fuming. It just wasn't fair. What good was teaching him to fight if he was never to be allowed off the ship? It had been understandable when he was younger, perhaps, but he wasn't a child anymore – hadn't been one for a long time. Even being unable to age himself, Barbossa should have understood that. Perhaps they feared him running off, but that was absurd; he had nowhere else to go, no one else to turn to, and he'd have to face arrest on his own.

He found himself largely ignored as they moored in a small cove a few miles away from the town, the pirates working easily in the low twilight. A few of them cast sympathetic glances his way, but they were all used to the way things worked, and they would not have defied Barbossa's command.

Will paced in the darkness until he ran into the captain again, quite literally. Barbossa grabbed him by the shoulders and studied him with a raised eyebrow. "Cabin," he finally said after Will had begun to squirm with discomfort.

The boy's mouth fell open. "No!" he said in outrage.

"Pardon me, William?" said Barbossa in that quiet, dangerous tone he usually saved for when he was about to snap.

Will's throat worked for a moment without any sound. "I only mean – there's no need, sir, I promise you –"

But Barbossa had him tightly by one arm and was hauling him towards the captain's cabin. "I'll be the judge o' that, young Turner. There's plenty drink in there to keep ye busy, and this way the boys 'n' I'll be assured of yer safety."

"Captain –" Will tried once more, but Barbossa shook his head. He released Will once he was safely ensconced, then locked the doors from outside. Will slammed his fists against the wood, hearing derisive laughter from the other side.

This was humiliation not to be borne. He didn't deserve this – hadn't tried to sneak off during a raid in years...

Will released a gust of frustrated breath and flung himself down into a chair. The cabin, like all the ship, smelled of rot and death. Sometimes the fresh salt air almost pervaded the scent, but it was never truly gone, and it was worst in enclosed spaces.

Most of the time, it was easy to forget how much he hated Barbossa in moments like this. No matter that the man had taken him in, fed and clothed him when civilized folk would have left the son of a pirate to die – no matter than he had done all this despite the fact that William Turner the elder had been a contemptible turncoat, and it was part his fault that they were all stuck in this mess. It was this connection which bound Will to the Pearl, allowing Barbossa to claim the debt owed to him by Turner blood. And Will was not unhappy, for all that; he spent the majority of his days grateful for the opportunity to be taken into the fiercest pirate crew in the Caribbean, even grateful for the concern Barbossa paid him, and certainly glad that they had let him stay on when others might have turned him away or killed him for his father's actions.

But this was the other side of the coin. As Will's father had been weak and disloyal, so too did they fear the same qualities in Will. If he could just find some way to prove, once and for all, that he was as game as the rest of them...

He started as the cannons began firing, peeking out the windows at the small port they were attacking. Somewhere in Jamaica – he couldn't quite remember the name of the place, only that Tortuga was near to it. He could hear the shouted orders from the gundeck, and his hands moved along with them. God damn them – he knew how to load the guns, knew how to wield a sword, how to fire a pistol, how to fight a man barehanded, how to...

How to pick a lock.

Will seized the errant thought before it could flit away. Quietly, ducking his head so he wouldn't be seen, he tried a dagger first. It didn't work, so he cast about for something else, finally coming up with a bit of wire meant to hang a gilded mirror on a wall hook. "Come on, come on," he muttered, to the improvised pick or to the lock or to the Pearl herself. One of them heard and obeyed, for he heard the click of tumblers and felt the lock release.

Grinning, Will tucked the wire into his pocket in the event it might come in handy later, perhaps for springing the brig door when Barbossa discovered him missing and threw him down with the rats. First, however, he intended to make a raid of his own, and bring back a hearty share of riches to contribute to the overall haul.

There was no one on deck, though he could hear Barbossa still bellowing at the gun crew below. The rest of the men had taken the boats ashore. Will could see the explosions from the ship, as pirates ran amok and the soldiers atop the stone fort returned fire. He slipped into the water and swam as quickly as his body would take him, alighting on the strip of sand where the boats had been pulled up. He snuck into the town, keeping in the shadows and ducking around corners whenever he saw one of his brethren.

Somehow, he had not thought to expect this much screaming.

At least, he thought to himself, turning to a wall as Jacoby went running after a shrieking woman with his grenades, the moon was clouded over tonight. It would be difficult to imagine a greater bout of hysteria than the one currently taking place, but if anything could do it, it would be the sight of pirate bones gleaming in cold light.

Avoiding a contingent of redcoats, Will belatedly realized that he'd brought no weapons other than the dagger tucked into his belt. He peered at the signs above his head. The apothecary and the milliner were questionable, but here was a blacksmith – at the very least, there ought to be a hammer.

The shop did not appear to be a target for the pirates, for it had not been ransacked. There was a donkey tethered in a corner. It snorted in fear and Will quickly bent to calm it, lest it attract unwanted attention. The animal quieted under the hand he stroked down its nose, along its neck. There were times when Will missed the beasts not found onboard a ship, even if his mother had never made nearly enough money to keep a horse. Barbossa's monkey was a terror and didn't qualify.

He patted the donkey one last time and made his way nearer to the forge, plucking a sizable hammer off of an anvil. He chose a poker as well, thankfully cool to the touch, but left the only real weapon in the place: a shoddy, rusted old sword that looked as if it had been made with the smith's eyes closed. Hefting an iron instrument in each hand, he paused in the cool, dark building and pondered what steps to take next. Now that he was finally here, he was finding himself less than eager to actively seek out violence. The screams of the townspeople were still ringing in his ears, along with gunshots and yells from the invading pirates. It wasn't as if Barbossa would know – he could later claim to have killed scores of men, as long as he brought back something to add to the Pearl's hold. Most of the pirates were ferocious enough, but not exactly renowned for their wit and powers of observation – Will wagered they were so intent on their mad rampaging that they might be leaving valuable treasures in their wake. All he had to do was sneak around into abandoned homes, brandishing his weapons if anyone should come upon him, and fill his pockets at his leisure.

They never lingered long, however, so he'd best get to it if he wanted a ride back to the ship. The back entrance to the smithy was quiet, so he padded quietly across the dirt floor.

He was so intent on listening for noises outside that he never heard the stumbling footsteps behind him, or the bottle smashing as it cracked against the back of his skull. He fell, makeshift weapons tumbling down beside him.

Mr. Brown, blacksmith and town drunkard, peered down at the unconscious figure. "Got meself a pirate," he said, before he fell over backwards and passed out again.

The donkey looked over at the two fallen men and brayed mournfully, hoping someone would come along to feed it breakfast.

Jack spent most of the night listening to sounds of the siege and coming up with increasingly creative ways to do Barbossa in. He'd gotten up to a complicated procedure involving a flask of coconut oil, a bushel of apples, and a dull paring knife when he drifted off. Morning found him with a crick in his neck and the prison still more or less deserted. He supposed he was not exactly a top priority at the moment. A pair of guards came down to check on him now and then, chattering about the goings on, and that was how he learned of Elizabeth's capture.

He wanted to be angry with her for keeping the coin hidden from him all these years; if she had not, none of this would have happened. But he knew how she was likely to factor into Barbossa's plans, and so he found himself fearing for her instead. It was unfortunate, perhaps even more unfortunate than the fact that Barbossa had finally gotten his missing piece and would soon be ripe for the killing again at the very same moment Jack would be swinging in the breeze. The girl had fouled things up completely, but she was an innocent – she and the boy, the two of them caught up in circumstances they couldn't control, had not asked for. Jack pitied them, as he pitied himself.

To distract his mind from such thoughts, he worked at the lock in the door with whatever he could find. There was a bit of shrapnel from the cell beside his own, but it didn't work any better than the pointy ends of the ornaments braided into his hair. He was giving a fragment of the dog bone another try when the door to the prison thumped open.

Abandoning his quest, Jack flung himself back down into the straw, affecting a posture of casual ease. Eyes closed, he listened to the steps come closer. That was odd; they were softer than the soldiers' fancy buckled shoes, more like a lady's slippers. He had an impossible notion that Elizabeth might somehow have gotten free and come to rescue him. But no, the footfalls were heavier than that, perhaps from boots like his own –

"You – Sparrow," said a husky male voice.

"Aye," Jack replied, lifting his head to look up at his visitor. He was young, perhaps not yet twenty. A boy more than a man, tall and lean. The boots Jack had guessed at were there, worn and scuffed like his clothing. He was sailor in every line of his body, from his deep tan to his trim muscles to the way he stood. There was the earring and the tattoo visible at the edge of his sleeve, of course, but no indicator was clearer than the slight unsteadiness of stance that came from walking dry land after months on a rolling deck. His face was the kind of handsome that could break the hearts of young women and old men alike. Eyes wide and alert, accustomed to meeting a gaze squarely; a determined chin said he was patient, though the shape of his mouth betrayed a fierce temper. There was something familiar about the way his nose curved, the set of his brow...

Watching him still, the boy crossed in front of the cell. "Get up," he said, and there was too much bravado in his voice, so that Jack knew he'd never had a command of his own.

"An' why should I do that?" Jack kept his own voice lazy, his eyes half-closed. Better to keep his observations to himself; for all he knew, the lad thought him a town drunk thrown behind bars to sober him up for a night.

The boy shrugged and turned away, lifting Jack's effects from the hook on which they were perched. The hat he tossed to the ground, the coat he left where it hung, and the belt he strapped onto his own body.

Jack watched the stranger's fingers run over the hilt of his blade with a twinge of dislike. He wasn't unnaturally attached to his belongings, but they were hardy things and he'd rather hang onto what worked than have to procure new ones. The pistol had somewhat more sentimental value, he would admit. The boy checked its shot and raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. He cocked it and pointed it at Jack's head.

"Up," he said, almost pleasantly, jerking the weapon in the proper direction.

"Well, that's quite another story, mate." Jack got to his feet slowly, the niggling feeling that he knew this person enhanced somehow by the gun. "An' who might you be?"

He came forward to hang against the bars and the boy took an involuntary step back, his lips thinning. "I am someone you don't want to cross." Jack might have laughed, except staring down the barrel of a pistol as he was, it was true for the moment.

"You know who I am," he said instead, tapping his nails against the iron crosspiece. "And y' seem somewhat familiar with my effects."

The boy's nostrils flared and Jack wondered what he had done to earn himself such instant ire. Men didn't usually look at him like that unless he'd fucked their sweethearts or commandeered their ships. "I do know who you are," he snapped. "I'm acquainted with a man you used to call friend. And I believe you knew my father as well."

Jack narrowed his eyes. He knew of only one sailor with a son who'd be this age now. "You're Turner's whelp," he said quietly, an image of Bill superimposing itself over the boy. Slimmer than his father, taller, and his eyes were brown where Bill's had been blue. He'd named the child after himself, if Jack recalled correctly. It was William Turner the Second who'd been taken by Barbossa eight years ago, the boy in Elizabeth's dreams – the boy from whom she must have gotten the last coin. "Will, is it?" he asked, taking a guess. The wife would not have called the boy the same name as his father.

Will lifted his chin. "If you must call me something, that will do."

"I've heard you sail with the Black Pearl these days," said Jack, choosing his words with care. There was no telling how Barbossa had mangled the story of their history together, though judging from Will's attitude, Jack had not come out ahead.

The boy shifted his posture, his arm probably tiring. "I need to get out of this port before the navy finds me. I cannot crew one of their ships on my own, and I..." For the first time he faltered, eyes falling to his feet before he looked up again, defiant. "I know where the Pearl will be going, but I don't know the way. You were captain once – you must remember."

So he knew part of the truth. That took an edge off of Jack's advantage, but not by too much – he didn't know about the compass or it would have been the first thing he looked for. "If I do, what of it?" he said. "What makes you think I'd help you, eh? Surely you've sussed that there's no love lost 'twixt me and the dog you call captain." No flare of defensive rage – that was interesting. So Barbossa hadn't been the best of father figures to the boy. Jack couldn't say he was surprised.

"I've a lockpick," said Will. "I can get you out of here." He brandished the pistol in a short arc. "Or I can shoot you and take my chances with the lobsterbacks."

Jack cocked his head and said nothing, holding the boy's gaze. Will's cheeks grew pink with the desire to look away. It was not only an empty threat in the sense that he couldn't be stupid enough to expect to walk free after drawing the guards with the sound of the shot. He'd never killed a man before. Jack had no idea how, after years spent with Barbossa's lot, but he looked into Will's eyes and knew it was so. That did something to his trust in the boy, but he wasn't sure if it had in fact gone up or down.

"And when we reach the fabled isle, what then? Seems to me a question of whether I die now or in a few days' time." The longer he kept Will talking, the more he was likely to reveal. Jack had no objection to playing this new development by ear, but it was best to set off with at least some idea about his companion's temperament.

Will took a long breath and bit his lip. "You have my guarantee of safe passage once we get to the Pearl. Captain Barbossa will spare you if I ask it of him." It was a curious manner of lie – Jack could see that Will half-believed his own words, perhaps because he was alone and frightened and had no other choice.

Jack studied the stone floor, pretending to consider. It was a done deal; where the Pearl and the Aztec gold and the blood of William Turner met, Jack would go. It would be a bonus if he might spare Elizabeth in the bargain, and maybe the boy as well, but he would settle for his ship and a bullet in Barbossa's heart.

"Well then, Mr. Turner" he finally said, nodding to the anxious lad, "if you spring me from this cell, I swear on pain of death I shall lead you to Isla de Muerte and your jolly crewmates, provided I come to no harm at their hands. Do we have an accord?"

For the first time, the shadow of a smile appeared on Will's stern young face. "Agreed." He uncocked the pistol, holstered it, and shook Jack's hand firmly, sailor's calluses thick on his palms.

Jack's eyes fell to the hilt of his sword and Will closed his fingers over it. "You understand I must keep your weapons, of course," said Will, stepping back to let Jack in front of him. "For my own safety."

"Aye," said Jack reluctantly, biting back a scowl. "Guess you're pirate after all, lad."

Pride shone in Will's bright eyes as he followed Jack up the stairs. Good for the boy to keep a high opinion of himself – it would lower his defenses.

Besides which, he was a fine sight to look upon when he smiled.