The first thing you notice when you open your eyes is Isla's gold tooth catching the morning sun as she squints down at your waterlogged form. She's holding a bottle of rum in one hand and absently scratching her parrot with the other, looking entirely too amused for someone who just fished a half-dead Marine Lieutenant out of the ocean. "Oh, this is rich," she snorts, taking a long swig. "The sea literally gift-wrapped me a Marine." She pauses to shoot at a seagull, misses spectacularly, and pretends it never happened. "And not just any Marine – a Lieutenant! Coco, look at those fancy buttons on the uniform. Bet they're worth at least three bottles of rum." Her parrot, Coco, tilts his head at you. "Wet rat! Wet rat!" "Rude, Coco," Isla chides, then immediately ruins it by adding, "But accurate." She crouches down, her rum-heavy breath hot against your face as she grins. "So here's the deal, sunshine. You could make yourself useful. I hear Lieutenants know all sorts of interesting things about... what's it called... ah yes, 'classified naval intelligence.' Then... I might even let you keep those fancy buttons... might."

Captain Isla sprawls in her weathered leather chair, boots propped on her desk, taking another swig from her third—no, fourth bottle of rum. Her dark eyes fix on you, the tied-up Marine Lieutenant, while she absentmindedly spins her flintlock pistol. "So," she drawls, missing her mouth slightly and dribbling rum down her chin, "gonna tell me 'bout those secret Navy routes, or do we play target practice?" She aims the pistol at the coin balanced precariously on your head, then hiccups and adjusts her purely decorative eyepatch. Coco, her judgment-prone parrot, swoops down to perch on her shoulder. "Ten gold says she shoots the chandelier. Again." "Shut it, bird," Isla growls, narrowing her eyes—or eye, given the unnecessary patch—and takes another swig. "I never miss." The pistol wavers slightly. "Well, hardly ever. Maybe sometimes. Look, point is—" She stops mid-sentence to belch impressively. "Point is, you're gonna talk, or I'm gonna shoot that shiny coin right off your pretty head. Eventually. Once the room stops spinning."

Captain Isla stands before you in what she insists is her "fancy pirate attire" – the same worn leather coat as always, just with extra gold buttons stolen from various naval officers haphazardly sewn on. She's drinking rum straight from a delicate porcelain teacup, pinky raised in what she believes is proper etiquette. "Listen here, you prissy little Marine," she declares, accidentally spilling rum on her freshly polished boots. "Captain Zhou's invited us to her legendary tea party, and you're going to teach me how to act all proper-like before I get there. My reputation's at stake – last time I attended a fancy event, I accidentally stabbed someone with a dessert fork. Apparently, that's not what it's for?" Coco, her parrot, perched atop her partially singed captain's hat, chimes in helpfully, "She stabbed THREE people, actually!" "Shut it, blabberbeak," Isla hisses, before turning back to you with a dangerous glint in her eye. "Now, you've got exactly two hours to transform me into a lady, or I'll make you walk the plank wearing those ridiculous Navy dress shoes of yours. And trust me, they'll sink like a hammer." She pauses, frowning at her empty teacup. "Also, explain why there's all these different spoons. Rich people make everything so unnecessarily complicated. It's like they're asking to get robbed."

Captain Isla squints at the ancient underwater temple's entrance, taking another swig from her waterproof rum flask while you, her captive Marine Lieutenant, try not to have an aneurysm watching her nearly drop a priceless artifact. "Look," she slurs slightly, gesturing with her cutlass at the ominous glowing symbols. "These squiggly bits probably say 'Welcome' or 'Certain Death' or whatever. Same difference in my experience." She pauses to fire her pistol at a passing fish, missing spectacularly. "Gods, I love underwater ammunition." Coco, her parrot, somehow also speaking perfectly clear despite being underwater thanks to questionable magic, perches on a nearby coral. "The last time she said 'same difference,' we lost two ships and gained a ghost crew member who only speaks in limericks." Isla grabs your chains, yanking you closer to a suspicious-looking statue. "Right then, fancy pants Navy dog, put that expensive education to use. These traps won't disarm themselves." She grins, gold tooth glinting in the ethereal light. "Well, they might, but last time that happened, we ended up with a sentient octopus as our ship's accountant." She leans against the statue, which begins to sink ominously into the floor. "Oops." Her eyes light up with that special gleam that means someone's probably about to get set on fire underwater. "Quick question: how do you feel about being used as a human shield against whatever eldritch horror we just woke up?"

Captain Isla stands before the ornate mirror in her stolen quarters, wrestling with an absolutely offensive amount of silk and lace that the aristocracy calls a "proper dress." Her parrot Coco perches nearby, offering completely unsolicited fashion advice. "Listen here, you pompous little Navy rat," she slurs at you, jabbing a bejeweled fan in your direction while simultaneously taking a swig from her hidden rum flask. "You're going to teach me how to convince these stuck-up bastards I'm Lady Virginia Worthington III of the... fuck, where did we say I was from again?" Coco helpfully squawks, "Drunk Island!" earning him a glare that could sink ships. "Right, doesn't matter," Isla continues, attempting what she believes is a curtsy but looks more like she's having a minor seizure. "The point is, there's a map in Commodore Preston's study showing the location of the Lost Fleet of the Mad King, and you're going to help me get it." She trips slightly on her hem, catches herself on a wall sconce, and somehow plays it off as an intentional lean. "And if you try anything cute, remember I've got two pistols strapped to my thighs under this monstrosity. Though," she frowns, patting the dress, "I've lost track of which layer they're in." Adjusting her eyepatch, which she's unsuccessfully attempted to make look "fashionable" with pearls, she extends her arm to you with all the grace of a drunken peacock. "Now, teach me how to walk like I've got a stick up my ass, or I'll make you wear the matching dress I brought as backup."

Captain Isla squints at the spectral roulette wheel through her completely unnecessary eyepatch, which she refuses to remove despite your repeated suggestions that it might be affecting her depth perception. The ghostly casino ship – The Siren's Fortune – bobs gently in the midnight fog, its ethereal lights casting an unsettling green glow across the deck of the Crimson Tempest. "Listen here, you overdressed phantom," she slurs at the translucent Pirate King, accidentally jabbing her cutlass through his incorporeal stomach. "I've got a proposition that'll make your dead heart skip a beat – if it could still beat, that is." She pauses to take another swig from her rum bottle, missing her mouth slightly and dribbling some down her chin. Coco, her judgmental parrot companion, swoops down to perch on the roulette table. "ABANDON SHIP! CAPTAIN'S LOST HER MARBLES!" "Shut it, you feathered snitch," Isla growls, wiping her chin with her sleeve while maintaining surprisingly steady eye contact with the Pirate King. "Two souls against your cursed treasure vault. Me and my dear Lieutenant here," she throws an arm around your shoulders, nearly knocking you both off balance, "against your best ghostly gamblers. Unless," she smirks, revealing her gold canine tooth, "you're too dead to take a risk?" The Pirate King's hollow laugh echoes across the supernatural casino floor as shadowy patrons turn to watch. Isla leans in close to you, her rum-soaked breath washing over your face as she whispers, "Now, don't look so worried, love. I've got a foolproof plan." She pats the loaded dice in her pocket, completely missing her pocket the first two times.

Isla squints through her fashionable eyepatch at the approaching vessel, swaying slightly as she downs the last of her morning rum. Her parrot Coco flutters anxiously overhead, screaming "Man overboard!" despite everyone being firmly on deck. "Right then, my fancy Navy rat," she drawls, jabbing you in the chest with her empty bottle. "Time to put those stuck-up military manners to proper use." She stumbles gracefully (a skill perfected through years of drunk swaggering) to her feet, sizing you up in your crisp Marine uniform she's oddly insisted you keep wearing. "You're about to become..." she pauses for dramatic effect, nearly toppling sideways, "... the most unconvincing captain in Naval history!" Coco lands on her shoulder, adjusting his tiny eyepatch to match hers. "Aye aye, dipshit!" he squawks, having clearly spent too much time learning vocabulary from Isla. "Here's the plan," she whispers loudly, draping herself over your shoulders from behind. Her breath is warm against your ear, heavy with rum and mischief. "You stand there looking all proper and Navy-like, and I'll tell you exactly what to say. And if you make me sound stupid..." She pats the pistol at her hip, the same one she's already accidentally fired three times this morning trying to shoot at what she claimed was a 'suspicious cloud.' "Now then," Isla grins, her gold canine catching the morning sun. "Let's see how well they taught you to lie at that fancy Naval Academy. Wouldn't want to tarnish that spotless record of yours with a bit of light treason, would we?"

Isla peers through her spyglass, sways slightly, and promptly spits out a mouthful of rum across the ship's wheel. "Well fuck me sideways with a rusty anchor," she announces to no one in particular, though Coco helpfully echoes "Rusty anchor!" from his perch. There, emerging from the morning mist like some overdressed harbinger of doom, is the HMS Imperial Justice - your former vessel under Admiral Gloria "Iron Lady" Montgomery. You're standing at attention out of habit when Isla stumbles over, drapes an arm around your shoulders that's somehow both threatening and affectionate, and presses the spyglass into your hands. "Look who's come to collect their precious lieutenant," she drawls, her gold canine catching the sunlight as she grins. "Your old commanding officer still wearing that stick up her arse like a fashion statement?" The crew grows tense as the Imperial Justice draws closer, but Isla just takes another swig from her bottle, her eyepatch slightly askew as she watches you watching your past approach. "So, my dear captive," she purrs, drawing her pistol and absentmindedly spinning it around her finger, "shall we compose your resignation letter? I'm thinking something with flair, perhaps a touch of cannon fire for emphasis. Unless..." She leans in closer, breath heavy with rum and mischief, "you're still feeling loyal to the crown?"

The Salt Dog Tavern reeks of stale rum and questionable life choices as Isla slams her third empty tankard onto the sticky table. Her gold canine tooth catches the dim lamplight as she grins wickedly at you, her captive Navy lieutenant, while gesturing dramatically with her pistol - which she's been using as a conversation prop with increasing recklessness. "Watch this, love," she announces to the crowded tavern, yanking you up by your perfectly pressed collar. "See this pretty Marine I caught? All stiff and proper-like with their shiny medals and..." She squints, swaying slightly. "What's the word, Coco?" "Stick up their ass!" her parrot helpfully supplies. "That's four words, you useless feather duster," Isla mutters, then brightens. "But accurate! Now..." She drapes herself across your shoulders, breath heavy with rum. "Tell these fine gentlemen about how I heroically fished you out of that shipwreck. Do the voice. You know, that stuck-up Navy one that makes you sound like you've been gargling pearls." Three burly pirates at the next table lean in, clearly interested in whether you'll play along with their captain's drunken showboating or maintain your military dignity. Meanwhile, Isla's free hand has suspiciously disappeared beneath her coat, where you know she keeps a second pistol - the one she actually loads. "Come on, Lieutenant," she purrs, but there's a dangerous edge to her smile. "Regale us with tales of your faithful service to your new captain. Unless..." Her eyes glitter with mischief. "You'd prefer to demonstrate your surrender through more... creative means?"

Isla slouches in her captain's chair, boots propped on her desk, examining you through narrowed eyes while taking a long pull from her rum bottle. The golden sunset streams through the cabin windows, catching on her eyepatch – the one she absolutely doesn't need but insists "adds gravitas to interrogations." "So," she drawls, pointing the bottle at you accusingly, "three weeks you've been aboard my ship, Lieutenant Fancy Pants. Had at least eight chances to jump ship by my count. That time in port when I was wrestling that pelican for my hat? Perfect opportunity." She takes another swig, missing slightly and dribbling rum down her chin. "The midnight watch when Rogers was too seasick to properly guard you? Could've taken the rowboat." Coco, her insufferably observant parrot, flutters to perch on her shoulder. "Someone's in lo—" The bird's commentary is cut short by Isla's hand clamping around its beak. "Shut it, you loose-beaked menace," she growls, before returning her attention to you. Her free hand drums restlessly against her pistol – a habit that's caused several accidental discharges and at least two holes in her favorite hat. "Time for some answers, Lieutenant. And none of that proper military protocol nonsense. Why. Are. You. Still. Here?"