The Captain's Cabin of Marina Kick's flagship smelled of leather and old wood, with a hint of the peppermint tea she pretended not to drink. Sunlight filtered through the porthole, casting long golden rectangles across the polished floor, the beams catching dust motes that drifted in the still air. The ship swayed gently with the rhythm of the harbor, and somewhere above, a sailor's voice called out an order that was lost to the wind.
Marina Kick stood behind her desk, her dark hazel eyes fixed on the transponder snail. The snail's shell was painted with the Marine insignia, its eyestalks swiveling lazily, its face neutral and waiting. The clock on the wall ticked in steady, accusing beats. The sun outside had begun its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and gold.
She slammed the transceiver down.
The crack of plastic against shell echoed through the cabin. The snail's eyestalks retracted in protest, then extended again, unperturbed. Marina's jaw flexed. Her teeth ground together. Her hand remained on the transceiver, knuckles white, as if she could force an answer through sheer will.
"Shit."
The word came out flat, hard, stripped of its usual energy. She pushed away from the desk, her cleats scraping against the wooden floor, and flopped into the chair behind her. The leather creaked under her weight. She ran a hand through her dark brown pixie cut, fingers catching on the thick braid on the left side, and let out a breath that carried the weight of a woman who had been holding it for too long.
Across the desk, Rear Admiral Topiaris Tidaltuff sat in a high-backed chair, his long legs crossed at the ankle, his posture immaculate despite the casual setting. His silver-white pompadour rose in that magnificent, cascading wave, not a single hair out of place. His light blue eyes tracked Marina's movements with the detached interest of someone watching a storm from behind glass.
He pulled a fine-toothed, ivory-handled comb from his breast pocket and ran it through his hair, the teeth gliding through the silver-white strands in slow, deliberate strokes. The motion was meditative, almost hypnotic.
"Having a bad day?" His voice carried that refined, almost theatrical cadence, the words stretched and polished like the surface of a calm sea.
Marina huffed. The sound came from deep in her chest, a release of frustration that she could no longer contain. She slumped further into her chair, her green-trimmed Justice coat bunching around her shoulders.
"Yes." She gestured toward the transponder snail with a jerk of her chin. "I have a team that we sent to check out a possible location for where there may be a Beast Pirate ship. And they have missed their check-in call by an hour."
Topiaris paused mid-stroke. His comb hovered above his pompadour, the ivory catching the golden light from the porthole.
"That sounds like a problem." He resumed combing, his strokes slow and deliberate. "How long will it take for another team to follow up?"
Marina looked at the clock. The second hand ticked forward in its relentless march. She looked out the porthole, at the sun sliding toward the horizon, at the shadows growing longer across the deck of the ship. Her jaw tightened.
"At least two hours."
Topiaris sighed. He tucked his comb back into his breast pocket and adjusted his silver chain, his fingers finding the small, diamond-encrusted poodle charm and settling it in the center of his chest.
"It will be nightfall by then." He paused, his light blue eyes meeting Marina's dark hazel ones. "And we are about to make a move on Roast A Lotte."
Marina shook her head. The motion was small, almost imperceptible, but it carried the weight of a decision already made.
"It can't be helped."
The chair screeched across the floor as she stood. The sound was harsh, raw, a protest from the wood and metal that matched the tension in her shoulders. She walked around the desk, her cleats clicking against the floor, her green captain's armband catching the light.
"If something is going on out there, we need to know about it."
Topiaris stood. His movements were fluid, elegant, the practiced grace of a man who had spent years perfecting the art of rising from a chair without wrinkling his trousers. He smoothed the front of his starched white coat and adjusted his cuffs.
"I'm in."
Marina raised a brow. Her steps slowed as she passed him, her dark hazel eyes fixed on his face.
Topiaris pulled out his comb, ran it through his pompadour once more, and tucked it away. His expression was almost sheepish—almost, but not quite.
"What?" He adjusted his diamond-encrusted poodle charm. "I am wasting away here. They will have that little shop locked down in no time flat. Petra Ven and Zento Radias have it in the bag."
Marina considered this. Her foot tapped against the floor—once, twice, three times—a nervous habit she disguised as keeping rhythm. Her hand drifted to the duffel bag at her feet, the weathered olive-green canvas with "MK 10" stenciled on the side. She patted it once, twice, and straightened.
"Should we inform the Vice Admiral?"
Topiaris's expression flickered—something that might have been concern or might have been irritation. He smoothed his already-immaculate cuffs.
"Casimir?"
Marina nodded. Her jaw tightened at the name. She did not speak it aloud.
She considered the question, her dark hazel eyes fixed on the transponder snail, on the clock, on the sun sinking toward the horizon. Her hand drifted to the dog tags around her neck, her fingers finding the small engraving of a soccer ball and tracing its outline.
Then she shook her head.
"No." Her voice was firm, final. "He has his hands full with Cipher Pol. I don't want to bother him with this."
Topiaris shrugged, the motion causing his starched white coat to shift on his shoulders. "It's your funeral."
Marina walked to the door. Her hand closed on the handle, and she paused, looking back over her shoulder. Her dark hazel eyes held his.
"Maybe. But if something happened to that team, I'm not going to let them sit out there waiting for help that won't come until dark."
She pushed the door open and stepped onto the deck.
The wind hit her face, warm and salt-tinged, carrying the smell of the harbor and the distant sweetness of Roast A Lotte's almond confections. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the wooden planks. Sailors moved across the deck, their boots thudding against the wood, their voices carrying in a low murmur of conversation and command.
Marina strode to the railing, her cleats clicking against the deck, her green-trimmed Justice coat billowing behind her. She raised her voice, and it carried across the ship with the authority of someone who had never learned to whisper.
"I need a volunteer crew! We're heading out in ten minutes! Full combat readiness!"
The sailors paused. Heads turned. Eyes widened. Then they scrambled, boots pounding against the deck, hands reaching for weapons, voices rising in a chorus of acknowledgment.
Topiaris followed her onto the deck, his starched white coat immaculate, his silver-white pompadour catching the golden light. He paused beside her, his light blue eyes sweeping across the chaos with the calm detachment of someone who had seen worse and emerged with his cuffs still pressed.
"I'm going to grab some of my people," he announced, his voice carrying that refined, almost theatrical cadence. "The Grooming Squad could use some fresh air. And the exercise."
Marina glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. "The Grooming Squad?"
Topiaris adjusted his cufflinks. "They prefer to be called the 'Grooming Squad.' It's more dignified than 'my personal attendants.'"
Marina shook her head, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Just get them on board. We leave in ten."
Topiaris nodded, turned, and walked toward the gangplank, his polished black riding boots clicking against the wood. His silhouette was tall and elegant against the setting sun, his pompadour a silver-white beacon in the golden light.
Marina watched him go, then turned back to the harbor, to the sun sinking toward the horizon, to the cove where her team had disappeared and not returned.
Her hand found the duffel bag at her feet. She patted it once, twice, and whispered to herself, the words meant for no one but the ghosts of teammates past.
"Twelve shots. That's all I need. Hat trick for the captain, hat trick for the crew, hat trick for justice, and three for luck."
She picked up the bag, slung it over her shoulder, and walked toward the railing.
"Let's go find out what happened."
The sailors scrambled. The sun sank lower. The shadows grew longer.
And somewhere in the cove, a transponder snail rang unanswered.
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