Chapter 2: The Compass
Elias didn't stop he knows very well not to stop after taking something so he
ducked beneath a crumbling archway, slipping past crates and barrels stacked high behind an old, rotting tavern. The alley was narrow and damp, filled with the scent of fish guts and stale beer—perfect for disappearing. He had run far enough. The stranger wouldn't find him here.
Or so he thought.
He knelt down and finally uncurled his fingers. There, resting in his palm, was the thing he'd stolen. Not a pouch of gold. Not a flask of rum.
A compass.
A... black, worn, utterly ordinary compass.
"What?" he muttered. He turned it over in his hand, studying the strange little device. The lid was dented, the brass dulled with age. The glass was scratched. He clicked it open with his thumb.
The needle spun lazily... then stopped.
But not pointing north.
Elias frowned. He turned the compass slowly, checking again. The needle didn't adjust. It remained still, pointing somewhere odd—off to his left, toward the slums, or maybe the sea. Definitely not north.
His eyes widened slightly.
"What the hell...?"
It was broken. It had to be. That, or it was enchanted, but Elias didn't believe in magic anymore. The sea was cruel, not mystical.
"Of all the things I could've stolen," Elias muttered bitterly, "I stole this?"
He leaned his head back against the wall and laughed dryly. "Didn't even take his rum. Didn't grab his coin purse. No... I took a damn broken compass."
He sighed and rubbed his eyes.
"Maybe I can sell it," he said aloud, trying to reassure himself. "Some idiot in the docks'll buy it. A fancy-looking trinket's still a trinket."
He flicked the compass again. "Seriously, though... what kind of pirate carries a broken compass?"
A voice answered, lazy and amused:
"The kind you don't steal from, mate."
Elias froze. His heart leapt into his throat. He slowly looked up.
There he was.
The man from before—the pirate with the beads in his hair, the charm around his neck, and the most smug, infuriating grin Elias had ever seen.
Jack Sparrow leaned against a wooden crate, one brow raised, one finger twirling in the air. He looked barely winded, though his hair was damp with sweat and his breath came a touch heavy.
"How—how did you—?" Elias stammered.
Jack tilted his head, almost as if trying to remember. "Oh, I dunno. Followed the smell of self-loathing and cheap tobacco. Or maybe the broken window you crashed through two blocks back. Bit of a trail, really."
Elias instinctively stepped back, compass still in hand. "I'm not giving it back."
"Oh, I'm sure you're not," Jack said with a nod. "You've earned it, what with the sprinting, the shoving, the clever disappearing act. Very foxlike."
Jack walked forward, boots clicking softly on the cobblestones. He didn't draw a sword. Didn't even raise his voice.
"But let's have a chat, shall we?"
Elias gritted his teeth. "You want a chat? Why don't you try the tavern? I'm sure they'd love your company."
"Oh, I already tried," Jack replied, glancing behind him. "But the barkeep threw me out. Something about 'unpaid rum from last year.' Bloke holds a grudge."
He looked back at Elias. "But you, my agile friend, are far more interesting than rum. You took something valuable. Very valuable."
Elias snorted. "It's a broken compass."
Jack's grin widened. "Is it?"
He stepped closer. Elias didn't move—he wasn't sure he could. There was something... off about this man. Not threatening. Not exactly. But wild. Unpredictable. Like the sea itself.
"It doesn't point north," Elias said, holding it out. "It's useless."
Jack took a step so close that they almost touched. He looked down at the compass in Elias's hand, then back up at him with a gleam in his eye.
"Exactly," Jack said. "It doesn't point north. That's the point."
Elias blinked. "That makes no sense."
Jack leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Oh, it makes perfect sense. That compass, my dear fox-boy, doesn't point north. It points to what you want most."
Elias frowned, staring at the needle. "...What I want?"
Jack nodded solemnly. "Deep down. Not money, not food. Real want. The kind that keeps you awake at night."
The needle twitched slightly. Still not north.
Elias closed the compass sharply. "You're lying."
Jack raised his hands. "I'm always lying. Except when I'm not."
There was a beat of silence. Elias held the compass tight, heart racing. Jack simply stood there, arms loose at his sides, head tilted like a bird watching a particularly interesting worm.
"I should keep it," Elias said finally. "You lost it fair and square."
Jack's eyes sparkled. "And you're welcome to try, lad. But a little advice?"
Elias raised a brow. "What?"
Jack leaned in again, almost conspiratorially.
"Every man who's ever held that compass has found trouble. Big, nasty, teeth-baring kind of trouble. Cursed gold. Undead sailors. Krakens the size of ships. And women with very sharp knives and very poor tempers."
Elias stared at him. "...You're insane."
"Thank you!" Jack said brightly. "Now, since you've been so kind as to borrow my compass, I think it's only fair I ask what you want, hmm?"
Elias stayed quiet.
Jack stepped back, giving him space. "Let me guess," he said, pacing slowly. "You want freedom. Real freedom. A ship under your feet. No laws, no masters. Just wind, salt, and gold."
Elias's silence spoke volumes.
Jack turned and pointed at him. "Thought so. You've got that look. I've seen it before. Poor, hungry, angry... and clever. Dangerous combination."
Elias finally spoke. "Why do you care?"
Jack gave him a lopsided grin. "Because I'm Captain Jack Sparrow. And I never let a good opportunity go to waste."
Elias narrowed his eyes. "What kind of opportunity?"
Jack stepped forward again. "You stole from me. That's a good start. Means you're fast. Clever. And stupid, yes, but we can work on that."
Elias gave a short, bitter laugh. "You want me to work for you?"
Jack shrugged. "Work with me. Or around me. Or behind me if you're polite. Point is, you're wasted in this city."
He gestured toward the open sea, barely visible through the alley's mouth. "Out there, there's more than crumbs and rotten fish. There's purpose. Adventure. Danger. Death. And rum."
Elias hesitated.
The compass in his hand trembled slightly.
He didn't believe in magic. Not really. But he felt something stir inside him — that old, wild longing he thought he'd buried beneath hunger and bitterness.
Freedom. A real life. A legacy.
He looked back up at Jack.
Jack raised a brow. "So what's it going to be, Mr. Foxboy? Stay here, scraping bread and dodging fists? Or take a step into a bigger story?"
Elias didn't answer.
But he didn't give the compass back either.
And Jack just grinned.
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