It’s almost night time in Storybrooke. The hour between light and dark, where distances grow fuzzy and the eyes play tricks.
The thieving hour, it ought to be called. At least, in the opinion of a young criminal mastermind by the name of Jack Bradagan, who is probably given to more poetic flights of fancy than most thieves.
Storybrooke, he has discovered in the short time since he stumbled through a portal, is a very sleepy, unassuming town. The port is far less crowded than any he’s ever visited back home. In fact, at this hour, it’s all but deserted. There is no noise and light spilling from taverns beckoning sailors to drink and spend their coin, no brothel or loitering whore to be seen anywhere, no late-night gambling or merchant stalls.
He has his target. He has his crew. He also has a sword, and several knives hidden in strategic places upon his person. He takes a deep breath, then motions to the other four, and they make their way along the docks, to the lone sailing ship tied up at the pier. The Jolly Roger.
The gangplank is down. Jack leads the way up to the deck, almost giddy with excitement. The price he paid for the tip-off looks to have been worth it. It’s not nearly this easy to even board a ship back home.
“I don’t think you want to do that, mate,” says a man’s voice behind him. It’s a hard, world-weary sort of voice, a voice that has seen more than its share of thievery. It’s followed by a soft cooing sound that seems out of place. The voice goes on, “Turn around.”
Jack is already doing so. His heart is simultaneously somewhere around his knees, and trying to jump into his throat. He knows that voice, or rather, he knows what a voice like that means. It’s a voice used to giving orders. He’s heard it from many a captain, though never quite like this.
The man standing in front of him looks like he was made for thieving hour. He is dark-haired and dressed in shades of black and grey and navy, so that he seems to blend into the falling night, except for the pale skin of his face and hand. His one hand, which is currently holding a sword, the curved blade pointing at Jack. The other arm ends in a wicked curve of metal. More metal gleams at his belt: a strange-looking badge of some kind.
Strapped to his chest is a baby. Jack blinks, taken aback, but it is definitely a baby, cradled against the man’s chest, tiny hands flailing a little.