FULL SUMMARY: "I have seen Hell, and I have dreamed of Heaven. This place is neither." A young woman finds herself press ganged to the Dutchman for reasons that aren't quite clear to her. At first, she sees nothing but damned souls and faces, and most of them are no more eager to have her around than she them. Her tension with the first mate only puts another obstacle in her path. However, she soon discovers kindness can exist even on the Dutchman, and as she learns more about this estranged crew she soon she finds herself tangled in a twist of fate. So when she is presented with the chance of freedom, she must choose whether to follow her heart or her head.

Chapter #1: Press Ganged

Faint traced of light had slowly begun to ebb back into her barely conscious mind, pushing her back towards wakefulness at an agonizing pace. She could still smell it, the reeking odor that had emitted from above deck, flooding her already overwhelmed senses with the smell of decaying flesh. Vaguely, she was aware of a hand shaking her by the shoulder, but her body was lagging behind her mind, a quiet moan escaping through her lips.

It was then that everything returned in a violent wave. The ship had given a vicious lurch, sending her rolling gracelessly across the floor of her cell as she was knocked clear off her feet. Screams of terror had followed shortly after, echoing above her with the heavy, frantic footsteps of the crew as they ran about on deck. Before she had been able to so much as consider the cause of their panic, however, the ship had given another horrible jerk, the deafening sound of splintering wood and cannon fire reaching her ears, vibrating the entire vessel. That was when the odor had hit her senses. It was by far the most rancid stench she had ever encountered, and the last thing she had known before another abrupt lurch sent her sprawling once more, knocking her head hard against the bench, was the long, slimy appendage that had came slithering down the stairs.

The Kraken.

It was only now, as she regained her senses, that she realized she had been knocked out, and the eerie silence that followed was not comforting in the slightest. The only sounds she could detect were the sound of occasional footsteps above her, and the muffled voice that seemed to be calling to her. Lass, it was saying.

"Lass. Oi!"

Emitting another low moan, she finally found the strength to open her eyes. At first, her vision was hazy, but she was able to make out the blurred figure of a man knelt above her. He appeared to be wearing a pointed hat of sorts, but as her sight cleared she had frozen solid as she realized he was not wearing a hat. That was his head. She was staring into the face of a man—but oh, no—this was no man. Half his face had been encased in what she realized was a giant conch shell, barnacles flecking his body among other arrays of sea life. What the BLOODY HELL?!

Before she realizes her own actions, her fist was launching upwards, reflexes kicking in on sheer instinct. The attack had been out of blind shock, but she managed to hit her mark, nailing him point blank in the face. To her horror, his head flew clear off his shoulders, landing on the floor beside him.

"Ayy-ahh!" he shouted. Shouted. How was it still speaking?!

She froze, watching in poorly concealed horror as the head continued to speak, and as if that wasn't bizarre enough the body had risen to its feet, stumbling across the cell in search for the head that was calling to it. Having stumbled back against the far corner, she had visibly bristled as the body drew dangerously close to her, groping the air blindly, and the head's expression flashed with fleeting alarm.

"No, no, watch out—!"

Pressing her hands and back against the wall, she had sent both of her feet kicking straight into the body's chest, sending it to a rough landing on its back for a second time. Presented with precious opportunity, she leapt over the body and ran through the open door of the cell, but she was stopped short in her tracks by a deep voice at the top of the stairs.

"Hadras, what the ruddy hell are ye doin' down 'ere—" The figure had stopped at the bottom of the steps when he saw her, momentary shock stamping across his barnacle-encrusted features. The one eye not covered in barnacles stared at her in poorly concealed surprise, when, all of a sudden, a huge grin was plastering itself on his face, as a deep laugh rang through the air. "Get a look at this, lads! Hadras found 'imself a lil' sea sprite!"

"Lil' sea sprite my rear end," a voice grumbled, causing her to whip around. The shell-headed man had managed to reattach his head to his body and was now glaring at her bitterly from the doorway of the cell. "She took my head clean off!"

"As if it's hard ta do!" the other laughed. "An infant could do it!"

"Shut yer trap!"

Despite the other—Hadras, was it?—being behind her, he found herself backing up as the other descended the stairs, still grinning. He was much bigger. It was when they took a simultaneous step towards her that her senses began to clear, reminding her that she was not helpless—that she was not a damsel in distress.

Her eyes flashed something fierce.

Up on the shattered deck, heads had turned in unison at a loud shout, as Clanker came staggering onto the deck as if driven outwards by sheer force, and his back made solid, clumsy contact with the deck. In the same instant, Hadras' head came flying out behind him, emitting a lengthy yell before it came to a rolling, skipping halt across the soggy boards. However, when a young woman stepped into view where they thought would be a man, needless to say they were a bit more than surprised.

She had frozen upon seeing them all standing about the deck, staring back at her with bewildered eyes—or, in some cases, various forms of tendrils and other grotesquely inhuman features. For a brief moment, she thought she had died and woken up in Hell, staring in poorly hidden horror. Another cackle rose from the monstrous crew, and a voice shouted loud and clear for all to hear:

"Lookie what Clanker an' Hadras found, boys!"

Darkened chuckles reached her ears, mouths curving into disgusting smiles as they began to draw in around her. She tensed, when her eyes shifted down as she saw the crewman named—Clanker?—getting to his feet. Without hesitating, she kicked him hard across the face with a heeled boot, sending him sprawling once more, much to the demonic crew's surprise.

"Get 'er!"

Her eyes lit aflame as she stepped onto her foe's back, using it to vault herself upwards, and grabbed onto a rope that hung overhead. Throwing her weight forward, she useded it to haul up and swing her form over the heads of the crewmen charging at her. Their heads had followed her as she glided above them, before her feet planted themselves firmly on the chest of one towards the back of the group, knocking him flat on his back with impact. Pulling out the knife she hid in her bodice, she whipped it forward into the neck of a crewman who appeared more like a mass of muscles and kelp than he did a human man, seaweed hanging from his body and arms like a nautical cloak, and he lurched back with a strangled cry. Swallowing her disgust, she threw herself at him, arm hooking around his neck and throwing him to the ground. She had used his body for support mid-fall, as she kicked both legs up straight into the chest of another and sent him slamming back against the wall, and with a combination of hand-to-hand techniques, she took out a third, grabbing the back of his head and slamming it against a mast when he drew his sword on her.

"We got a feisty one on our hands, boys!"

She managed to hold her own at first, but her head had begun to swim due to the hard hit it had taken when she'd hit it in the brig, and to her greater shock, the crewmen she had taken down had already gotten back up—even the one she had sent her knife into. She had watched with widened, horrified eyes as he ripped the blade from his throat with a snarl of pain, monstrous face seeming to twist with rage despite being incapable of human expression. Like the undead, they continued to spring back from her attacks, leering at her with what had turned into sadistic amusement. They were laughing at her.

"Wench has spirit!"

"Not for long!"

She suddenly paused when she felt a presence behind her. Whipping about, she punched out of reflex—only to release a sharp cry of pain as she was met with sharpened—were those quills covering his face?!. Clutching her hand, she stumbled back, eyes wide as she stared at him. He looked to be morphed with a puffer fish, right eye bulging as his spiked cheek puffed outward in his anger at the hit, yet he appeared grimly amused at the same time.

"In a bit over yer head, aren't ye, missy?" he leered.

Before she could so much as even think up a response, she felt a dull object hit her hard in the back of the head, and that was the last thing she remembered before slumping to the deck at his feet.

When she had awoken from her daze, she'd been shoved to her knees and was now staring up at the mutated faces around her. What remained of the men she had been sailing with were lined up alongside her, five in total aside from her. It had occurred to her exactly what they were dealing with the moment she had seen the gigantic tentacle slithering towards her, and she wondered briefly how she had managed to survive. There was only one man she could think of who could have sent such a beast to do his bidding. Up until that night, they had been mere stories—bedtime horror tales told by superstitious sailors. If this was really the crew of Davy Jones, then the ship poised next to the wreckage had to be none other than the Flying Dutchman.

Despite herself, she found herself shaking her head slowly. The Flying Dutchman. Dear God, what had she gotten herself into this time?

However, no one had ever made any mention of hellish sea-encrusted monsters crewing it. Each and every one of them had become engulfed by the sea as if becoming it, small shells, tendrils, barnacles, and other forms of sea life embedded into their bodies like a grotesque mosaic; mutating them all into something unrecognizable as human men. Her eyes strayed to the one who vaguely resembled a puffer fish, and she felt her hand prickle with pain. It had bled from the tiny puncture wounds left by the protruding spikes, and she had no doubt some of her blood was still smeared on his face; though, she doubted he'd bothered to clean it off. She doubted any of these creatures flinched at the sight or sensation of blood, likely viewing it as a mark of honor—savage warriors of the sea.

Bright, hazel-green eyes darted to the one who had made to grab her in the hold, standing beside the conch shell crewman. What was his name, again? Clanker? His solid build made her wonder just how she had managed to shove him back such a distance, drawing it down to the overload of adrenaline that had been flooding her veins, heightening her senses and strength as her fight or flight instinct kicked in. From beneath his hat hung strands of seaweed in place of hair down to his shoulders, a pair of metal chain-shot hanging at his hips, clinking with every heavy movement he made. Out of all the crewmen, however, there was one who seemed to stand out from the rest. Perhaps it was the way he stood amongst the others, rigid and radiating authority—or perhaps it was in the way his skull had mutated into the two protruding ends of a hammerhead shark. His eyes were the coldest she'd ever seen, scanning over his surroundings with an icy vigilance, a piercing cerulean. They went well with his skin, which had taken on the slate gray of the shark he resembled. Encasing his left arm was what resembled a lobster gauntlet, and in the other he gripped a sharpened ax, its blade stained red with crimson blood.

Beside her, her fellow crew—though, she hardly considered them as such—trembled like leaves whilst emitting pathetic gasps and whimpers, barely holding their composure in the presence of the damned crewman gathered around and behind them. Only one of the five men bothered to hold up a facade of well-practiced determination, and the show of resilience might have been impressive had he actually been able to keep his eyes on a single crewman for more than a couple seconds, not daring to linger for too long. It wouldn't take much to break the act when confronted by one of their captors, or, God forbid, Jones himself. Speaking of which, where was the famed captain? She knew none of the crewman standing before her were him, but she was in no particular rush to meet him, either. The man beside her leaned in then, speaking in a hushed, sharp whisper to her ear.

"You keep yer trap shut, you hear? One word outta you, wench, and—"

"Quiet, maggot!" a voice barked from behind. "Lest ye want yer tongue severed!"

He was sent down by a vicious blow to the head, and she found herself forcing back the urge to smirk, relishing silently in his humiliation and pain. Instead, she kept her eyes focused on the splintered wood beneath her, shifting her wrists against the coarse rope binding them in attempt to find any sort of give, but there was none. That was when she heard it.

Thunk.

Her head lifted.

Thunk.

The deck fell silent as another dull thunk followed, growing louder and louder until she could feel the deck vibrate beneath her protesting shins, and then finally a figure emerged, hulking and just as monstrous as the rest. Her eyes scanned over the face of the captain whose name struck terror through the hearts of even the most fearless of sailors, a glorious bears of writhing tentacles hanging down and over a broad chest and equally broad shoulders. His head in general held a striking resemblance to an octopus, as if it had sat itself right upon his shoulders.

A voice broke through the silence, one she did not recognize, and upon glancing she saw it was the hammerheaded crewman. "Six still alive. The rest have moved on." His voice was as cold as his eyes, gruff and stiff and indifferent to the bleeding and terrified men all but soiling themselves at his feet.

The captain, Captain Davy Jones, turned his ghostly blue eyes upon the line coolly, eyeing them with no specific interest; though, when he spoke, his voice echoed authority and demanded answer, deep and laced with a thick Scottish accent. "Who among you do you name as Captain-uh?"

The whimpers and panicked breathing around her resumed with renewed panic to the point where she could almost feel the trembling figure knelt to her right. When no answer was offered, the captain's beard actually writhed with rapidly rising impatience, and there was another audible thunk as he took a deliberate step closer. Upon looking down, she realized that the sound was not coming from a peg leg, but rather his entire leg had mutated into that of a crab's, the sharpened end creating a split in the wood as it landed.

"I said, who among you be named Captain?"

He had bent down to lean ominously in the face of one of the trembling crewmen, and the man, who had barely been holding himself upright before, was now all but collapsing from how violently he was shaking. She almost took pity on him. Almost. However, refusing an answer would only further anger Jones, so, swallowing her nerves, she dared to speak—if for her own sake. She had seen said captain splayed on the deck amongst the bodies of the rest of the crew who had not been lucky enough to escape the Kraken's wrath.

"The captain is dead."

His head had snapped sharply in her direction, and despite his piercing gaze she had managed to keep her voice even, loud enough for him to hear over the other men's pathetic sniveling, but a female voice amongst a dominantly male environment would cause any head to turn, and she'd just caught the attention of the oceanic equivalent of the Devil.

He straightened, the building anger that had been forming with his question going unanswered disappearing to be replaced with a combination of surprise and intrigue. With an audible thunk-thunk, he stepped over to where she knelt, leaning in slowly. "Dead, ye say?"

Though his tone was soft and calm, only a fool wouldn't detect the danger that lurked beneath thin layers. Nevertheless, her eyes remained locked with his, but not disrespectfully so. "The captain has passed on, sir."

Frigid eyes scanned over her soaked form, eyeing the way her clothes stuck to her skin, and the trickle of crimson that still leaked from her lip, down her jaw, and to her collarbone. "What business have ye aboard this vessel, missy?"

She answered without hesitation, keeping her tone calm and collected. "I was taken prisoner, sir. These men and their captain attacked the ship I was on. When I killed one of them after they tried taking advantage, I was locked in the brig."

His hairless brow rose, almost mocking. "So if I were to kill these men... slit their throats right before ye?"

Her expression remained stoic. "Then I'd say something good came of this night, after all."

The intrigue had returned, brow raising in surprise.

"You bitch!"

It happened within the blink of an eye, as Jones' head made a sharp turn to the offending voice, beard whipping with the motion, and then his arm was shooting forward; though, it wasn't an arm, but a huge crab claw that he seized the man's throat with, causing his eyes to fly wide as his wind pipe was all but crushed. "I do not believe your commentary was invited-uh," he stated coolly, but, again, only a fool would mistake it for calmness. After watching the panicked man struggle for breath for a few more moments, he released his hold on his neck and turned back to her once more as the crewman sucked in a ragged breath. "Tell me. What do ye make o' yer captors, Miss...?"

"Storms, sir," she replied, a bit reluctantly. Her gaze shifted to the men knelt to her right once again. A couple of them glared at her in silent threat, but it was a futile attempt at intimidation. They were powerless to do anything more to her, and as she studied their disdainful and malicious faces what little sympathy she may have had for them dissipated into nothing. Green eyes met ice blue, confidence rising with each word she spoke. "If it is men you are looking for, sir... you will be disappointed with these sailors, for they are no more men than they are warriors. Their bodies may be strong, but their spirits weak... souls... weak. They would not last a day on a vessel such as the Flying Dutchman."

His brow rose for what felt like the hundredth time, perhaps in surprise at the simple fact she had named his ship without being told of its identity, or maybe because she was a woman, and he was merely taken aback by the merciless reply. Then, all at once, the intrigue was transforming, twisting into a grin that could only be described as sadistic satisfaction, traces of amusement still lingering in its wake, and then he was straightening and meeting the gazes of his crew.

"The lady has spoken-uh," he said slyly, earning a few cruel sniggers in return. Turning, he faced the crewman standing at rigid attention behind him, the man with the hammerhead. "To the depths."

It was a gruesomely grim sight to behold, as they descended upon her terrified captors with malicious cackles and malformed faces. She watched with impassive, and perhaps even satisfied, eyes as hatchets rose above the helpless sailors' heads, and with five singularly downward strokes, all five men had slumped to the deck lifelessly, their blood spilling across the weathered planks through split open craniums. They barely touched the deck for two seconds before being hauled up by the crewmen and unceremoniously tossed overboard into the abyss.

Thunk.

Thunk.

Her head turned upwards as Jones resumed his spot standing before her, staring down at her as if she were an unsolved anonymity. He seemed to consider her a moment, shifting a bit in his stance, and then he simply commanded, "Rise-uh."

Knowing better than to argue at that moment, she obeyed, rising to a more dignified stance, and with a single nod from Jones the crewman that had been standing behind her stepped forward and sliced her wrists free. She calmly allowed her arms to rest back at her sides, ignoring the soreness where the rope had rubbed the skin raw, and focused on maintaining eye contact with the fearsome captain. It was hard to tell if it was amusement or impression she detected in his gaze as he looked her over, examining the way she stood straight and fearless despite the horrific crew surrounding her at all sides—despite the fact she was standing face-to-face with him.

"There is something about you..." He had begun to circle her now, slowly and with careful calculation. "No average mortal would be able to see it... but I am no average man-uh."

It took every ounce of self control to refrain from turning with him, keeping her eyes straight forward as she listened to the telltale thudding of his crab leg hitting the deck.

"Tell me, lass... can ye man a ship-uh?"

You mean your ship. "Yes, sir."

"Can ye now?"

Taunting snickers arose from the crew, making her blood simmer.

"Can ye fight-uh?"

At this, she finally mustered the nerve to look him in the eye, turning her head just as he was rounding her left side, and a tiny but sly smile made its way onto her full lips. "Why don't you ask your men?" Nodding her head, she gestured to where chain-shot and the conch-shelled man stood, and their expressions grew bitter and resentful at her boldness.

Though, in Jones' case, the intrigue had returned to his eyes tenfold, and he even smiled, this time in genuine amusement, however dark it may have been. He straightened, then. "Well, then, Miss Storms... it seems to be ye've been presented with a choice-uh." He leaned in a bit. "Tell me... do ye fear death-uh?"

She found herself answering before she could stop. "Death, like many things, is a world vastly unknown to all those still among the living... and so people fear it. They fear what they do not know." She fought to stay calm. "I cannot say I fear death... nor can I say I am eager to face it. I've always viewed it as a new start, sir. Just another uncharted land waiting to be discovered."

If he hadn't been curious of her before, she certainly had his attention now. Truthfully, she was stalling. If there was, perhaps, any way she could avoid an ax to the head, she would take it, but that meant joining this godforsaken crew. In time, she could figure out an escape plan, but would Jones even consider such a thing? To allow a woman onto his beloved hell ship? It hardly seemed plausible, but the utter fascination she saw in his eyes was telling her different.

Maybe she had a chance, here.

"Lock her in the brig," said Jones suddenly. "This one has caught my interest-uh."

Her genuine shock seemed to be mirrored in the eyes of the crew, exchanging incredulous glances with each other, but none of them dared question their captain's authority. Behind her, she felt a hand roughly seize her by the arm, and the next thing she knew she was being hit hard in the back of the head, and everything fell black once again.