The world exploded, or at least that's what it felt like to James. More accurately, the water to port side exploded, rising thirty feet in the air as if an angry sea creature had emerged from below.

In fact, that's precisely what happened. Tarnished wood breached the column of water like a hellish whale, a jagged-tooth bow followed by mossy sails and a barnacled hull.

The Flying Dutchman crashed onto the surface of the water, sending a wave across the deck of the Mariner's Lament. Seeing the impending rush of water, James tried to wrap his arms around the woman beside him, hoping to anchor her against the onslaught, but she seemed to have a better idea.

Ona unceremoniously shoved James under the stairs that led to the quarterdeck, jumping in after him just as the rushing water hit. They were both slammed against the bulkhead, a hard jolt going up his arm from where he knocked it against the wood. He spluttered seawater out of his mouth and wiped it out of his eyes, expecting it to sting. But it didn't.

Having no time to think about why that was, James took quick stock of their situation, giving a quick once-over to the woman beside him. They were soaked, bedraggled and battered, but alive.

Not all of the crew had made it. Many had been washed overboard from the wave, and the ones left were still trying to recover their wits, coughing and gagging while on their hands and knees.

Captain Sharp didn't need to recover, nor did he need see what colors the attacking ship was flying. While his men were still finding their feet, he had already begun to shout orders.

"All hands! To your stations!" he roared. "Use those swords you plundered from my armory and defend this ship! Prove you're not a band of mutinous, traitorous mongrels, and send that cursed ship back to Hell from whence it came!"

Sharp paused and scanned the deck until he caught sight of Ona and James. The captain gave a slight nod to his navigator, his expression one of grim acceptance.

Before James could ponder that foreboding look, Ona was through the doorway and into the ship, half-pulling and half-dragging him along, one arm hooked firmly around his back while the other held the pistol before her. It seemed she was sticking to the original plan of going to the cabin's quarters, and James didn't have the heart to tell her there was no hope. It didn't matter where they ran or how well they hid. Jones never let his quarry escape. The ship was doomed, along with every soul she carried.

I did this, he thought with overwhelming despair. I brought death upon these people for no other reason than they had the ill-luck to bring me aboard.

James somehow managed to keep his feet after Ona released him once they reached Sharp's cabin. She slammed the door and locked it tight behind them, and then she dashed to a tall, iron safe against one wall of the cabin. She put the pistol into her dress pocket and pulled out a key in its stead, inserted it into the lock, and opened the safe's heavy door. Out came two hefty English dueling pistols.

"I assume you're proficient with these?" she asked as she examined one, turning it this way and that in her hand. James couldn't stop the bitter smile that crossed his lips as he approached her.

"More than."

"Good," she responded curtly.

She handed both of the pistols to him. He reached out to take them, hesitated, and said, "You might be the better shot, considering my current state."

"Probably."

James felt his eyebrows rise at her blunt response, but she still held out the flintlocks to him, so he took them without further argument. He had to admit, even though he knew they would only hinder Jones' men, not stop them, it still felt good to hold them in his grasp.

Two steel cutlasses were removed next, and after handing one to James, she closed and locked the safe. When she retrieved her pistol from the dress pocket, he got a closer view of it, noting its heavy weight and flared muzzle.

"A dragon," James said, impressed as he eyed the blunderbuss pistol. He hadn't seen one since being stationed in London. Such weapons were used by the Royal Horse Guards and the Royal Regiment of Dragoons. Meant for combat on horseback, it made the flintlocks in his hand look like children's toys by comparison.

"It is," she answered in that curt manner of hers. "And yes, I know how to wield it."

"I have no doubt of that," James said. Ona peered at him closely, as if searching for signs of mockery. But there was none, for he had meant it.

With one last scrutinizing glare of his person, Ona turned away from him and began to prep her weapons for battle. He turned away and did the same, if only for a distraction so he wouldn't find himself staring at her. He suspected the captain kept his pistols in good order, and he found with no surprise that they were in exemplary shape.

James tucked the sword into the baldric still slung across his waist, deciding to spend the pistols first. Feeling the weight of steel on his hip called to mind his beautiful sword that he had lost, and for a moment, he froze as he recalled what had become of it.

In his last moments, he had plunged his sword into Davy Jones' chest. Bold, rash, and quite unlike him, his final act had been one of bravery. Or perhaps, extreme foolishness.

James didn't get a chance to reflect further on the matter; they both went still as an ominous noise vibrated the boards above their heads. Uneven and sharp. The lamps in the captain's quarters extinguished all at once, plunging them into darkness aside from the moonlight shining in from the windows.

He recognized the odd noise as footsteps, belonging to one man. It had been one of the last things he'd heard as he succumbed to the black nothingness of oblivion.

"How many men are stationed aboard the Dutchman?" Ona asked, her head craned toward the ceiling as she moved closer to him. James studied her face, wondering if she'd been in combat before. She didn't seem especially afraid. He wondered if there was anything in this world that did frighten her.

"Dozens, not including the Company marines," he responded, finding his voice tight with dread. "I do not know if they'll be involved, or if they still live, but Jones' men cannot be killed by natural means as far as I can surmise."

"Then let's not waste our shots," she said evenly. "Aim for points of weakness. Knees, elbows, shoulders, even their eyes."

Her utter lack of fear was oddly comforting despite the fact he knew these were their last moments. Out of habit and ingrained training, James pressed his back against hers, gripping the two pistols and aiming them skyward as he waited for the enemy to appear. He felt the tension in Ona's shoulders, betraying her nonplussed attitude, and they waited in taut silence as the wind outside howled like they were in the pits of Hell itself.

After a moment, another sound pierced the air. Rising and twisting in torment and terror. It was not made by any breeze—these were the terrified cries of men faced with the impossible.

The sharp report of gunfire followed, and James knew the captain made the first move. Shame filled his gut for allowing himself to be hidden away, even though he knew nowhere on the ship was safe.

"I should be out there, helping your captain," he stated grimly. James had just about made up his mind to go when Ona warned:

"Stay where you are, Admiral."

"They're here for me," James responded, unable to hide the anguish from his words.

"We know," she said simply, her voice absent of any blame or resentment.

"You… were expecting this?" he asked, slightly turning his head to watch her over his shoulder.

"Yes." And now there was a hint of unhappiness in her voice as she added, "But we thought we'd have more time."

Something hard slammed into the side of the ship, causing James to fall back onto the navigator, and they both crashed to the floor. There was profound pain as he landed on his raw, bloodied chest, and he gasped for air, unable to move as he tried to push back the agony enough to recover.

"Ona?" he choked out, pressing a hand to his chest. When there was no answering response, he looked up and saw her scrambling across the floor. Her blunderbuss had been knocked from her hand to lay a few feet away, but as soon as her pale fingers closed around it, a thick, barnacled boot stomped on the barrel of the pistol.

The woman craned her head upwards as the cursed crewman leaned down toward her, his urchin-spiked face breaking into a smile as he crooned, "'ello, lambkin."

James grabbed his twin pistols and had just managed to stagger to his feet when a pain-filled scream rent the air. His heart hammered in his ribcage as he looked up, expecting to find Ona injured or worse, only to find confusion at the sight before him.

The monstrous sailor was hopping on one foot while the other flopped on the floor like a fish. Ona was crouched on one knee, her cutlass in hand as the edge dripped with black, viscous blood. She retrieved her blunderbuss from where it lay on the deck, and then cautiously backed away from the howling, cursing villain, and stood at James' side.

He hadn't moved during the entire scene, too stunned to react as he stared down at her.

"What?" she snapped, her brows furrowed in annoyance as she glared back at him.

Before James could respond, another crewman stepped forward out of the shadows. And then another, and another, quite literally pouring out of the woodwork as they began to surround them, penning them in like a pack of sharks around two wayward fish.

He and Ona pulled back-to-back, and James raised both of his pistols and aimed them at the two nearest seamen.

"Surrender, Admiral, and ye'll be unharmed," one of them spoke with a smirk. Jimmy Legs. The bosun of the Dutchman, his body and face covered with disturbing protrusions of fleshy corals. "Cap'n just wants a word."

"And I should like several with him, but we don't always get what we want, do we?" James answered. The monstrous crewman scowled, clearly unhappy with the flippant answer he was given.

"Cap'n gets what Cap'n wants! Take 'em!"

James fired his twin pistols simultaneously, and the crewman to the right and left of Jimmy Legs staggered backwards, screaming as they gripped their shredded faces. Ona's pistol went off immediately after, the report so loud in the small space that it left James with ringing ears.

But when they both pulled their swords at the same time, he could hear the twin steel blades singing in the dark as they slid from their scabbards.

Despite the pain and the horror and the knowledge of certain death, James felt an undercurrent of electricity through his limbs. It was a feeling he hadn't had since… well, since his duel with Turner and Sparrow on Isla Cruces. Every moment since then, every action he'd performed had felt constrained, uncertain, and profoundly empty. He had questioned every step he took and found his motivations hollow.

Now, with his sword flashing through the air as he ripped and slashed and tore through molted, briny flesh, he felt thrillingly, undeniably alive. He wasn't fighting to regain lost honor or to prove his loyalty to England. He was fighting for his right to survive, and to protect the two souls aboard who had shown him a modicum of human decency.

Ona's handling of a sword must have been skillful, because she held off her side just as well as James held his. But what they had in superior skills couldn't make up for the Dutchman crew's superior numbers. It was only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed, and the swords were ripped from their hands as they were forcibly disarmed.

There was a yell, one of anger more than pain, and James knew the navigator had been seized. His heart hammering in his chest, James turned and prepared to fight off her attackers, with bare knuckles if necessary, but then something hard and chitinous hit the side of his head.

James dropped to his knees. His eyelids were suddenly heavy and his vision difficult to focus, but he managed to lift his gaze to see Ona being bodily dragged away from him. When their eyes met, she struggled harder to fight off her captors, but no mere mortal could hope to resist the crew of the Flying Dutchman.

In the end, they always won. Because to fight them, was to fight Death itself.

Her face blurred and vanished, and James collapsed onto his side. He couldn't move, unable to defend himself as the men grabbed his arms and dragged him across the floorboards, their cruel laughter ringing in his ears as a hellish musical score of metal striking metal played in the background.