Jack Sparrow was, by all measurable standards, having a very bad day.
The desert stretched endlessly in every direction—rolling dunes like frozen waves, bleached gold under a merciless sky. The wind flew across the sand, carrying nothing useful but more sand. No birds. No ships. No taverns. No rum.
Jack stared at the empty bottle in his hand.
He tipped it upside down.
Nothing.
He shook it.
Still nothing.
He peered inside, as if the rum might be hiding. "Don't do this to me," he murmured. "We had an understanding."
The bottle betrayed him.
Jack sighed and let it drop into the sand. It landed with a pathetic thud and rolled half a turn, mocking him.
He licked his lips. Dry. Cracked. His tongue felt like it had been wrapped in parchment and left under the sun.
"This," Jack said hoarsely, "is what I get for trusting a magical object bought from a terrifying woman."
The compass rested in his hand. The needle was still pointing.
Jack squinted at it. "You couldn't have pointed to a bar?"
The desert answered with silence.
Jack turned in a slow circle, scanning the horizon. No city. No Konoha. No sign he had ever been anywhere other than here. His footprints were already fading, swallowed by drifting sand.
He hugged himself slightly.
It was getting cold.
The heat of the day was draining fast, leaving behind a creeping chill that sank into his bones. His coat—perfectly acceptable for the sea—was doing very little against the desert night.
Jack laughed weakly. "Cold, thirsty, lost… this is usually the part where something explodes or tries to kill me."
He trudged forward anyway. Because stopping meant admitting defeat, and Jack Sparrow did not admit defeat. He merely postponed victory.
Minutes blurred into an hour. Or maybe hours blurred into minutes. Time did strange things in the desert.
Then—
Jack froze.
There. Ahead.
Green.
Actual green.
A cluster of palm trees swayed gently in the distance. And beneath them—
Jack's breath hitched.
Water. A lake.
Clear. Still. Reflecting the sky like polished glass.
Jack didn't think.
He ran.
Boots sank into sand, lungs burned, legs screamed, but he ran. Laughing now, breathless, delirious with hope.
"I knew you wouldn't abandon me!" he shouted at the universe. "I knew it!"
He reached the edge and dove forward without hesitation.
Cold.
Wet.
Jack plunged headfirst and surfaced sputtering, gulping water greedily. He drank like a man who had never tasted water before, scooping it with both hands, letting it spill down his chin.
"Oh, that's good," he gasped. "That's very good."
He dunked his head again.
And again.
Then—
Crunch.
Grit.
Jack froze.
His mouth was full of sand.
He spat violently, coughing, gagging as the taste hit him all at once. His hands clawed at the ground—not water, but dry, coarse grains slipping through his fingers.
The lake shimmered… and vanished.
The trees dissolved into heat haze.
Jack collapsed onto his knees, retching sand onto the ground.
"…Mirage," he croaked.
He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, tongue raw, eyes burning. He laughed then—soft at first, then louder, slightly unhinged.
"Of course," Jack said. "Of course it was."
He pushed himself upright, swaying.
The temperature dropped again. Sharply this time. The desert wind cut through him, cold and sudden, as if the night had decided it had to increase Jack's suffering.
Jack's instincts screamed.
Every hair on his body stood on end.
His chest tightened, breath catching as something deep inside him stirred—an awareness he was only beginning to understand.
Observation.
Jack flared it instinctively, just for a heartbeat.
And that heartbeat saved his life.
He twisted sideways as something flashed where his heart had been a fraction of a second earlier.
A clang cut through the night.
Jack stumbled back, boots skidding, as a golden spade buried itself in the sand inches from him.
It was massive—ornate, polished, gleaming faintly in the moonlight.
And it was attached to a hand.
A woman stepped out of the darkness as if she had always been there.
Tall. Confident. Dangerous.
Her black hair fell loose down her back, glossy as oil, framing a sharp, beautiful face carved with arrogance and calm in equal measure. A cigar burned lazily between her fingers, its ember glowing red as she drew in a slow, unbothered drag.
Her clothing was practical yet unmistakably deliberate—tailored coat hugging her frame, open just enough to be provocative without trying. Sand clung to her boots, but she walked like the desert belonged to her.
Her eyes—dark, predatory—raked over Jack with slow amusement.
"Well," she said, voice smooth and dry as the desert air, smoke curling from her lips, "you're either very lucky… or very stupid."
Jack stared at the spade.
Then at her.
Then back at the spade.
He swallowed.
"…I was going to say charming," Jack replied weakly, forcing a crooked grin. "But I see we're starting with attempted murder instead."
She smirked, fingers tightening around the handle of the golden weapon as it dissolved back into sand, reforming seamlessly into her arm.
Jack's grin faltered.
"That," he said carefully, "is new."
The woman exhaled smoke and took another step forward, eyes never leaving him.
"Lost, drunk, and wandering my desert," she said. "You pirates do have a death wish."
Jack straightened as best he could, one hand drifting toward his sword.
"Ah," he said, nodding. "So this is your desert."
Her smile widened—slow, sharp, dangerous.
The night grew colder.
And Jack Sparrow knew—absolutely, undeniably—that he had just stepped into something far worse than being lost.