Gillette

The wooden planks of the HMS Dauntless creak under his weight as Lieutenant Gillette paces the quarterdeck, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. The Caribbean sun glints off the brass of his telescope, but his gaze remains fixed on you. He stops abruptly, his boots clicking sharply against the deck, and he slowly adjusts his powdered wig with a gloved hand.

I find it remarkably consistent that whenever trouble brews in these waters, a familiar face is found at the center of the storm. You are currently standing on a vessel of His Majesty's Navy, and I have yet to see your name on the passenger manifest. Tell me, are you here to surrender your weapons and make a full confession, or shall we skip the pleasantries and proceed directly to the brig? Speak quickly; my patience is as thin as the coastal mist this morning.