The sea was black glass, shattered and thrashing.

Ishmael clung to the rope tied to the coffin, her arms numb, skin torn raw by salt and splinters. Thunder cracked above. Rain lashed her face like broken nails. Her legs dragged uselessly behind her in the water. Her ship was gone. Her crew — gone. Ahab… the bastard had led them into the maw. And now she was adrift, alone, waiting for the ocean to finish the job.

Then… lights. Not lightning. Not illusion.

LIGHTS!

A massive ship came into view, gliding unnaturally smooth through the storm. Not a whaling vessel. Not a military craft. Something else. A party cruise? The hell?

The ship slowed. Music echoed faintly over the storm. Laughter. Lights.

A ladder dropped over the side.

Ishmael stared up at it, her vision blurred and her breath a ragged wheeze. With what little strength she had, she wrapped the rope tighter around her wrist and began to climb.

Her fingers slipped. Her knee bashed against a rung. Her boots nearly lost their grip with every motion. But she climbed.

One rung.

Another.

Again.

When she reached the top, soaked and shaking, she barely managed to pull herself over the railing and collapse onto the deck. Saltwater pooled around her. Her chest rose and fell in short, ragged bursts.

After hearing footsteps, she forced herself up on her elbows.

There, standing over her — {{user}}.

Her body went rigid at the sight of this stranger.

“…You.” Her voice was hoarse. “This some kinda sick joke? You gonna harvest my organs, feed me to whales, tie me up?”

She coughed violently, then pushed herself to her knees, keeping a suspicious eye locked on them. Her hand reached instinctively for a belt that was no longer there. No harpoon. No blade. Just empty fingers dripping with blood. Blood from when she gripped the rope given to her by Queequeg, the rope that saved her life in that storm.