The prisoner is shoved into the dank, creaking prison of a ship, the heavy door slamming shut behind them. Their bones ache from the rough handling, but they’ve taken worse. Cold stone presses against their back as they try to shake the disorientation out of their head. This ain’t the first time they’ve been locked up, and sure as hell won’t be the last. They hear the scrape of metal, chains rattling, and a voice they know too well—one that makes their lips twitch into a smirk even in this miserable situation.

“Well, well, well. Look who’s joinin’ the party,” Nellie’s voice drifts from the cell next to theirs, lilting like the sway of the sea at night, smooth and full of mischief. The prisoner can practically hear her grin. “Look at ya,” she says, her grin mischievous. “Captured, eh? Don’t tell me ye thought yer luck would hold forever?” She pauses, her fingers dancing over a collection of rings, the clinking sound only making the moment all the more dramatic. “Not that I’m any different, mind ye. This just means one thing—fate’s got a wicked sense o’ humor, ain’t that right?”

Her gaze shifts to the prisoner, an eyebrow arched like she’s sizing them up, not with suspicion, but with the familiarity of someone who’s been in the same bind a thousand times before. “Did ye get caught on purpose, or are ye just this unlucky?”

The prisoner turns toward her voice, squinting into the darkness. They can’t see much, but her presence is as clear as the stars on a moonlit night.

“I can’t say I’ve been caught like this since me last... unfortunate encounter with the East India Trading Company. But there’s a first time for everything, eh? Besides, no cage can hold Captain Nellie Swann for long,” she continues, her words more like a song than a speech, full of swagger and confidence. “Ye’d do well to remember that, mate.”

Her voice fades for a moment, and the prisoner hears the subtle jingle of something metal. Probably her compass, always with her no matter the situation. The prisoner lets out a small huff of air, knowing Nellie’s got a plan, even if they have no idea what it is.

“Now, don’t ye go lookin’ at me like I’m the one in charge of gettin’ us outta here. A bit of chaos, aye, but I do fancy a bit o’ destruction before I get my hands on that little problem o’ ours,” she adds, her tone half-serious, half-amused. “Ye’ve heard the stories, eh? ’Bout how I outwitted Blackbeard himself on the high seas? Made him think he was chasin’ me to the ends of the earth—when all along, I was just playin’ the fool.”

Nellie leans forward, the chains rattling slightly as she shifts her weight. “Me, I’ve never been one to stick around an’ wait for me fate. No, I prefer takin’ it by the throat, twistin’ it ’round ’til it begs me for mercy,” she continues, voice dropping into a whisper that seems to carry all the weight of a thousand escapes. “And here we are, a pair o’ misfits in this hellhole. What say ye? Let’s see if yer wits are as sharp as yer chains are tight, eh?”

The prisoner can practically see the twinkle in her eyes as she talks, that gleam of confidence and the chaos she thrives on. She’s never been one for subtlety, but damn if it don’t work every time. Her methods might seem foolish to an outsider, but the prisoner knows better than to underestimate her. She’ll have a plan, and it’ll likely involve a lot of running, a touch of violence, and an awful lot of luck.

“Here’s what ye need to know,” Nellie’s voice drops low, like she’s about to reveal some grand secret. “I’ve been in worse spots than this. Matter of fact, last time I was in a dungeon, I ended up leavin’ with a few new friends—and the local authorities a bit more... disillusioned. I’m thinkin’ this’ll be no different.”

She pauses, and the prisoner can hear the telltale sound of her fiddling with something—a lock, maybe, or just her own damn ideas forming. She’s always thinking five steps ahead.

“But here’s the fun part, love,” she continues, her voice suddenly sweet and conspiratorial. “The key to escape isn’t just brute force. Nay, it’s about findin’ the weakness. Every lock’s got one. Every guard’s got a blind spot. Every dungeon’s got a crack somewhere that’ll let a clever gal slip through. And trust me, I’m the cleverest of ’em all.”

The prisoner rolls their eyes, but the truth is—she’s right. Nellie always finds the weak spot. Always. She’s a damn escape artist, and when it comes to slipping out of a tight spot, she could teach them a thing or two.

“So, ye ready for a bit o’ madness? It’s gonna be one hell of a ride, I promise ye that,” she adds, her voice dripping with excitement. “Now all we need is the right moment... and perhaps a little luck.”

The prisoner sits back, letting the warmth of her words wash over them. Her eyes gleam again, sharp as a hawk’s, and they can almost feel the pull o’ her plans, though they can’t quite tell where they lead. She’s a trickster, a master o’ improvisation, and they can almost hear the wheels turnin’ in that clever head o’ hers. They can feel it. And with Nellie at the helm, they’re pretty damn sure they’ll be outta there before the night’s through.