1. 18 years ago (Age -9 Months).

The woman was beautiful, no doubt. A certain aura of rum and spices hung around her as she made her way around the tables of the crowded tavern, serving rum and whatnot. Jack shook his head briefly to clear it, and turned his eyes back to his now empty mug of rum. Frowning, he glared at it reproachfully, as if expecting it to fill itself up again.

"Need some more, Captain?" a heavily accented female voice spoke from behind him. His head shot up to see the woman, the one he had been watching, standing there. The accent was intriguing, definitely not from the Caribbean. There was something rougher to it, not like the romance languages. Eastern, more eastern. It was an eastern accent.

"Well, love, I certainly wouldn't mind," he smiled charmingly at her. A wench, that was what he needed, and what she was. He needed a bloody good shag from this woman. She seemed to have noticed his travelling eyes, and her lips formed a small smile.

"Hate to disappoint you, Captain, but I am not in the services you require."

"Well, that's a right shame, love," Jack murmured, standing up and gently cupping her face in his hand. "Such. A. Shame" he breathed as he kissed along her jawline.

"Captain…" she trailed off, letting out a small gasp as Jack moved his mouth to her lips.

"Jack Sparrow, love, Captain Jack Sparrow. And who might you be?" he continued kissing the other side of her face, then moving down to her neck.

"Tatiana Vaduva," she replied, not caring if he remembered the name or not.

"Well then, Tatiana, shall we continue this upstairs?"

All she did was nod him on encouragingly.

2. 12 years ago (Age 5).

It felt good to plunder a town once again, Jack thought, satisfied, as he strode down the streets of the burning town, people to the right and left of him. They were screaming, panicking, and trying to attack him, but anyone who did ended up dead or unconscious. Oh yes, this was a good town for raiding, Jack smirked.

His pockets weighed down with all manner of jewels and such, Jack was making his way back to the Pearl. The street he was walking down was covered in debris, from burning and broken houses. A small creak, then a crack, and finally a crash was heard, as part of a building collapsed behind him.

It was only then that Jack heard the small cry. As if on own accord, Jack's body turned to the rubble of the collapsed building, and neared it, following the sound of the now sobs.

Jack pushed away a piece of wood to find the culprit of the crying: a little boy. Half his face was covered in a smear of dirt and blood, the rest just in dirt. A gash about two inches long started at the boy's left temple, cut the edge of his eye, and ended right at his cheekbone. The eye was squeezed shut, but the other one was torn wide open, clearly terrified of the strange man.

Without really thinking, Jack pulled the boy out of the rubble and into his arms, heading towards a building he was glad his crew hadn't destroyed. The doctor's. By the time he got there, the boy had either fallen asleep or fainted, and Jack simply placed him gently at the side of the building, near the water well. Someone would find him sooner than later.

Taking a step back, he made to disappear again, but something caught his eye. The boy, to be precise. In the flickering light of the other street he had not been able to see him that well, but now he got a good look at the boy, he looked strangely familiar.

His dark brown hair was sticking to his face in a mixture of blood and sweat, and looked as though it had not been cut in a long time. His skin, from what Jack could tell, was a dark olive shade. He wore a tattered dark red shirt that looked to belong to a grown man, as the sleeves were rolled up a lot and the end presumably went town to the boy's ankles, though it was bound around his hips. The brown breeches he was wearing were ripped, one leg about halfway up the calf, the other at the knee.

Jack shrugged, not bothering with the odd sense of familiarity, and headed on, not looking back.

3. 5 years ago (Age 12).

The boy wasn't particularly tall, or strong, but there was something about him that caught Jack's attention, in a non-perverted way. It was déjà vu as his eyes scanned over the long dark brown hair, bronze skin, the dark red shirt (that was still way too big, going down to right above the boy's knees), and finally, the scar from his left temple down, across the edge of his eye and ending right at the cheekbone.

Jack shuddered involuntarily at the memory of the blood and dirt from seven years ago. But the boy seemed to be well-off now. He had on dark brown breeches again, thought this time, they weren't ripped, and black boots that went up to his knees, and looked a little large. His hair was bound in a ponytail and so reached down to his shoulder blades. A few loose strands hung in his face, and in the sunlight, appeared to be golden blond.

If Jack hadn't been so sure this was the boy from seven years ago, he would have thought the boy was a girl in disguise.

"Excuse me, sir?" he heard a voice from next to him. He turned to see a young girl, no older than seven or eight, staring up at him with big eyes. "You- you're not going to hurt Sorin, are you?"

"Sorin?" He asked, an eyebrow raised inquisitively.

"The boy you've been watching," the young girl said.


"Sorin Vaduva. You're not going to hurt him, right, sir?"

"No of course not, love."

He had to get the hell out of there.

4. 2 years ago (Age 15).

Jack really had no clue how or why he was in Port Royal again. He didn't want to be there, and he would, for sure, land in prison again, and the Pearl would sail away without him. Again. So why the bloody hell was he there? He had to restock. It was urgent; there was no rum and only half a peanut left on the boat. Shuddering as he walked down the familiar dock, he was stopped by the man demanding his name and money.

Again, he paid three shillings and did not tell the man his name.

The streets were a lot more crowded than the last time Jack had been in Port Royal. People pushed and rumpled into him constantly, and no one seemed to mind that he was a pirate. That was odd. Beyond odd. It was creepy. And extremely suspicious. However, Jack soon found out it was what the people in Port Royal called 'Merchant's Weekend'. Apparently this was a weekend when merchants from all over the world came and sold their goods here.

Getting away from the crowd and the navy, he entered a tavern.

Later that night, Jack stumbled down the almost deserted dock, dead drunk. He could still walk in a straight line, due to his unusual sense of balance, but his steps were unsteady, and every time his eyes shifted, the image in front of them swayed and blurred.

"Had a little to drink, eh?" a voice said from next to him. I was an odd sounding voice- male, definitely, but the accent sounded so familiar. Squinting, he tried to look at the boy, but could only make out some blurry outlines and colors.

A few inches shorter than him. Dark hair. Dark tan skin. Dark red shirt with sleeves rolled up that hung halfway down his thighs. Dark pants and boots. Skinny. Jack blinked again, and the boy chuckled.

"I assume so. Well, in that case."

Before Jack could really figure out what was happening, he felt a slight tugging at one of his belts, and the boy had taken off, running. A few seconds later, Jack comprehended that the boy had just stolen his compass. Yet another few seconds later, his gun was pointed at the running figure, and his finger pulled the trigger.

The shot was too loud in Jack's head, but seemed to have hit the boy, for a clattering revealed his compass to be dropped and a shout of pain was heard. Yet the boy kept on running.

5. Present (Age 17).

Jack mustered the young man standing next to him, also in irons, also awaiting for his weapons to be taken away from him and to be thrown into jail. There was something familiar about him. It was… like a blurry memory… a gun shot, running, his compass. Yes, that was him! The compass thief! The one he had shot. It was then that Jack noticed what had been unusual about the boy- he had a hole in his right ear. So that was where he had shot him.

He didn't look much different, save for the fact that he was now as tall as Jack and his hair had been cut, though longer, thin braids still poked out here and there.

"Well, well, look what we have here. Sparrow senior, and Sparrow junior. Truly, a touching family reunion," Commodore Farley Rogers drawled. Jack's head turned to meet the boy's.

"Sparrow?" each questioned the other at the same time, before the boy snorted.

"I am in no way related to that despicable bastard. My name is Sorin Vaduva, not Sparrow."

In the dark of night, Jack's cell door was opened and a body was flung in. The guards laughed and left, and the body on the floor groaned, trying to lift himself up.

"A little help, dad?" the voice spat maliciously, and even though his instincts told him to go help Sorin, Jack did nothing but blankly stare at him as he managed to stand up. "Bloody hell, what's the matter with you, Sparrow?" he shouted, causing the other inmates to look curiously at them. "Mind your own goddam business," Sorin snarled, and the anger in his voice was enough to drive them away. "Am I not good enough a son for you to even help me up?"

"As I recall, you were the one who denied being related to me, lad," was all he said, but it was without his usual smart-ass way; his voice was blank, monotonous.

"What was I supposed to do, claim to be related to the man who tried to kill me? Claim to be related to a bastard?"

"Let me remind you that you're the bastard here, not me. I am completely legitimate, whereas you, my friend, are not. And I wasn't trying to kill you, I just wanted me compass back."

It was a short while before Sorin spoke back.

"You were drunk, but you were aiming at my head. Had I not moved out of the way in time, that ball would have gone straight through the back of my neck and you would have killed your son." He lifted his face to look Jack in the eye. "You're not my father, Sparrow. You're a heartless bastard."

Jack was going to protest; he hadn't known the young thief was his son, but something stopped him.

A few hours later, footsteps were heard. Out of the darkness, two figures appeared; a boy and a girl. Sorin talked to them quietly, apparently negotiating. After a few minutes of barter, the boy started to pick the lock, and another minute later, Sorin had slipped outside, closing the cell door behind him, and turning to look at Jack one last time.

"Just returning the favor, dad," he sneered, and disappeared into the darkness, following the boy and the girl.

It was odd, the feeling that Sorin was gone. Jack hadn't even thought of the boy as his son, hell, he didn't think he ever would, he didn't even like the boy! But the one part of him, the part that knew Sorin was acting out of revenge for Jack not staying with Sorin's mother, the part that knew Sorin was his son, the part that loved Sorin blindly, however small part that may be, it felt empty.

Empty like a cave that had briefly occupied by the world's greatest treasure, and now it was gone, stolen, leaving the cave in ruins.

I liked this.