Take Off Your Dress, Pick Up A Sword

a favor

Isla de Muerta was a chunk of volcanic rock, fortified by shallow, narrow obsidian passages. Silver mist hung around it like a gauzy skirt. From a distance, it seemed like a dark smudge in the grey horizon; up close, it was a menacing pitch castle.

Joanna joined the crew in leaning over the railing, squinting into the murky ripples beneath the hull. The shattered remains of unlucky brigs glinted back. "Puts a chill in the bones, how many honest sailors been claimed by this passage," Gibbs ominously avowed. Joanna concurred, but she questioned his use of the word honest.

The way in was thin and jagged, hardly wide and deep enough for a modestly-sized ship like the Interceptor. Nevertheless, Jack guided the ship through perilous waters with a sure hand.

Joanna found herself studying him from a distance -- his tendency to finger the bright, blue bead beneath his right ear, the particular angle of his hat, the shadow of a tattoo beneath the shoulder of his shirt. What Joanna found most intriguing, however, was his persistent habit of checking the compass. They were already at Isla de Muerta. In other words, Jack should have no need to peek at the arrow every other minute.

"What does the compass point to?" Joanna asked Will, grabbing him as he passed by.

He surrendered to her tugging and stayed put at her side, shrugging his shoulders. "I haven't asked. I think it must point to this island."

"You think?" Joanna set her eyes on the helm again, narrowing her eyes. Jack was, once again, nose-deep in the compass.

"If you're so curious, you should ask him," Will suggested.

Joanna frowned. The thought filled her with trepidation. "I think not. He'll say something absurd and misleading." She was struck with an idea. She called out as the quartermaster drifted by, "Hey, Gibbs!"

Gibbs obligingly stopped, raising a salt-and-pepper eyebrow. "The compass," Joanna prompted.

"How'd Jack come by it?" Will extrapolated; not what Joanna would have followed up with, but it would suit.

"Ah, not a lot's known 'bout Jack Sparrow 'fore he showed up in Tortuga with a mind t' go after the treasure of Isla de Muerta." Gibbs smiled fondly, fiddling with the cap of his flask. As he lifted it to his lips, he added, almost as an afterthought, "That was before I knew 'im. Back when he was captain of the Black Pearl."

There was a long pause in which Joanna and Will fought to keep their jaws off the deck.

"What," Joanna finally managed. Gibbs seemed to choke a bit on his drink.

Will cast his eyes to the bridge, to the enigma himself. "He failed to mention that," he murmured.

Having recovered, Gibbs explained. "Well, he plays things closer to the vest now. And a hard-learned lesson it was." He dropped to sit on a nearby crate, signaling for Joanna and Will to do the same. Still roiling in dismay, Joanna dragged Will to sit.

"See, three days out on the venture," Gibbs began conspiratorially, "the first mate comes t' him and says, everything's in equal share, that should mean the location of the treasure, too. So Jack gives up the bearings." Gibbs leaned closer, eyes gleaming with the thrill of storytelling. "That night, there was a mutiny."

Joanna and Will listened with wide eyes, enthralled by the truth of a man seemingly composed of legends and hoodwinks.

"They marooned Jack on an island an' left him to die," Gibbs continued. He finished with relish, "But not before he'd gone mad with the heat!"

Will processed this. "So that's the reason for all the..." He crossed his eyes and waved his hands in an unfortunately accurate impression of Jack. Joanna swallowed down what would be an inappropriately-timed giggle.