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."