A/N: This story was originally intended to be much longer. It started just before the beginning of DMC, but after several attempts to start it there, I felt it would work better to start here, near the end of DMC. So if it starts off a bit choppy and confusing, that's why. Working with OCs is certainly a challenge, so I hope this story turns out well!

Lucy came to slowly, wincing in the blinding sunlight. She blinked her eyes hard several times and brought her fingers to the back of her skull where a dull ache resided. Blood had crusted her hair, and she could feel a nasty bruise forming. As she sat up gingerly, she became aware of the surface beneath her gently swaying, and she realized she was on board a ship. She opened her eyes fully to find herself in spacious and ornate quarters. The sunlight streamed in through several windows on her left to illuminate a massive desk covered in maps and charts, a single bookcase laden with dense-looking tomes, and a few leather-bound trunks of varying sizes clustered around its base.

Her heartbeat spiked as she took in her unfamiliar surroundings that without a doubt belonged to a Royal Navy ship. She had no clue how she'd gotten there or where she was. Last she remembered, she'd been on Isla Cruces with Jack, Elizabeth, Will and Norrington. There had been the chest, the key, the fighting...then Jones's crew had shown up. Norrington had taken the chest and run off with it, she had followed...after that it got less clear.

A knock on the door sounded as she sat there trying to sort through what had happened. "Come in," she said, turning to see who it was.

A young man with a freckled face peeked in. "Sorry to disturb you, Miss Beckett," he said. "But the captain wanted to know as soon as you were awake, so I was just checking to see." His head vanished, and the door clicked shut behind him before she could ask any questions.

Miss Beckett. That confirmed it. This was a Royal Navy ship, and she was likely on her way back to her father. Swinging her legs over the side of her bunk, she stood, the warm wood pleasant under her bare feet. She swayed for a moment as her vision blurred and the pain in the back of her head flared up.

Then another knock-a more direct, assertive one this time-sounded at the door. "Come in," she replied, irritated with the interruption.

A broad-shouldered man in a captain's uniform entered, leaving the door open behind him. The blue sky framed him, and she could hear crashing waves, sighing wind, yelling men from beyond him. As he came closer, the sunlight through the windows found his face, a stern but not unkindly one. His skin was weathered and ruddy from years at sea, and his wig, though neatly bound in a queue, was grey and grizzled. He removed his hat as he stepped towards her, and inclined his head in a bow.

"We've been searching for you for quite some time, Miss Beckett," he said, his voice even and pleasant and colored by a subtle Scottish burr. "Ever since Miss Elizabeth Swann abducted you after escaping her arrest."

Abducted? "Are you returning me to my father?"

"Yes, and he'll be relieved to see you."

I very much doubt that. "Certainly. If I may ask, how did I come to be aboard your ship?"

"Well, that were a story better told by Norrington," he replied. "Seeing as he's the one who rescued you from the pirates."

Rescued? "May I speak with him?"

"Of course, I'll go fetch him. Is there anything we can do to make you more comfortable in the meantime?"

It was so strange to be treated with such deference again, especially when she was still dressed in the wide-legged breeches and caked-on dirt of a pirate. She suddenly felt very out of place in the spotless captain's quarters. "No, thank you," she said, lifting her chin and trying to muster her old imperious bearing.

"Very well," he replied, touching his fingers to his forehead and leaving, the door closing behind him. She took the few moments of solitude to examine her surroundings more closely. They were not nearly as spacious as they had first appeared; the many windows gave it the appearance of being larger. In fact, there was hardly space for the desk, the bookshelf, the bunk, and the trunks. Still, it was a pleasant enough room.

Another knock at the door, this time sloppy and careless. "Come in," she called, turning to face the door once more.

The handle turned, and Norrington entered, just as disheveled and filthy as herself. He shut the door behind him and stood there, his stance relaxed and careless.

"Care to explain all of this?" she asked, fear and anger running like a current under her words.

"I saved your life," Norrington replied. "You're welcome."

"By turning me over to my father?" she hissed.

"By rescuing you from Jones' crew."

"And then turning me over to my father?"

"Yes," he replied, his eyes cold. "He'll gladly recommission me once I give him the heart and return his daughter to him."

"Do you have any idea what he'll do to me? What he'll do to the Caribbean once he has the heart?"

He leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk. "Do you think I care? This is the only way I get my life back."

"You...bastard," she spat. "I risked my life for you on Isla Cruces, and this is how you repay me?"

"I didn't ask you to run after me. I had it all under control."

"I ran after you because I didn't want you to die. I believed in you, I thought you would change." She folded her arms. "Turns out I was wrong."

"I have changed," he spat back. "I see the world clearly now. I always tried to live by a code, and where did that get me? Washed up in Tripoli. Now I'm ready to do whatever it takes to end on the winning side."

"You've fallen far, James Norrington," she replied. "I don't even recognize you anymore."

She watched her words hit, saw the flicker of pain in his eyes, the furrow appear between his brows. For a split second, she saw the old Norrington underneath the sweat and grime. A man who always did what he believed to be the right thing, no matter the cost. And then the moment was gone, his expression flat, cold, and sullen once more.

"I hope you enjoy being reunited with your father," he said, then turned and left, slamming the door behind him.

She drew in a trembling, gasping breath and sank to the mattress, fists clenched around the fabric. How could he do this to me? Returning me to my father after everything we've been through. I never should have trusted him, I never should have believed in him. Tears sprang up in her eyes, but she blinked them away angrily. This is human nature, she reminded herself. To act in their own self-interest. That bastard only cares about himself.

She straightened her spine and lifted her gaze to glare at the space he'd occupied only moments before. I will never descend that far. I will never lose myself like he has.

She stood and set herself the task of examining and cataloguing every detail of the room. She went to the windows first, looking them over for any latches and pressing gently against the panels. Nothing. She'd have to break one if she wanted to escape that way. And that was only a last resort and only if they were near enough to land that she could swim. She went to the bookshelf next and hefted the largest tomes, satisfying herself that they could be used as weapons. Crouching by each trunk, she tried the lid, but only one opened. It was the smallest, its wooden planks worn and faded by time and sea. The lid creaked as she opened it, and inside she found only a spare set of clothing for the captain. She let it fall shut again as she turned to the desk.

It was littered with charts, letters, and maps, and in the corner rested a large, leather-bound book with a quill and inkwell next to it. She cracked it open to find a muster book. Leafing through it, she caught glimpses of captain's logs written in several different hands. Letting the cover fall, she turned her attention to the map. It detailed the Caribbean. She'd seen maps of it before, of course-with a father as power-hungry as her own, it had been impossible to avoid knowledge of the world-but now each location carried a whole new meaning. Isla de Muerta, where she and Elizabeth had nearly died; Tortuga, the squalid den of pirates where she'd been reunited with Jack; Isla Cruces, where James had betrayed and apparently kidnapped her; and Port Royal, where they were headed.

She felt a hollow in the pit of her stomach when she thought about seeing her father again. Publicly, he had claimed that each time she had disappeared, she had been kidnapped, but she knew he didn't believe that. He saw right through her. He knew how much she loved the sea, how much she longed for freedom. And he was determined to crush that in her. To bind her to a life of servitude to his glory. As a daughter, all she was good for was marrying someone useful. Perhaps that's what her father had waiting for her when she arrived. A husband. Or perhaps he planned to have her killed quietly. Or perhaps he would keep her under lock and key until she lost her mind.

But that's not going to happen, because I won't let it. Steeling herself, she continued rifling through the papers on the desk, finding only personal letters and weather charts, nothing of use. She went for the drawers, but they were all locked. She glanced around her room once more to see if she'd missed anything, but to no avail. She had almost no tools at her disposal. I'll have to make a run for it once we arrive.