AN: BIG Chapter.
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Gibbs had been awake for quite a while.
Ivankov had no idea. Pintel didn't know either. And neither did Ragetti.
By the time the old painter had laid him down on a bed of dry leaves nestled beneath the twisted roots of an ancient oak, Gibbs had already absorbed the whole tragic story.
He had heard Pintel's frantic, furious shouts echoing off the cobblestones. He had felt the chilling, unnatural crack of Redfield's power ripping through the town. He had listened to Ivankov's booming voice barking out orders.
But most vividly, he had heard Ragetti.
"Take Gibbs and go!"
The kid had sounded completely terrified, his voice cracking like a brittle twig. Yet, the foolish lad had chosen to stay behind anyway.
For him.
Gibbs slowly opened his eyes. "Bloody idiots…" His voice came out as a raspy whisper, thick with phlegm and pain.
Red turned at once, his ink-stained hands shaking. "You're awake."
"Unfortunately." Gibbs attempted to shift his weight, but pain shot through him instantly—a heavy, brutal ache in his ribs that flared into a searing fire.
His breath caught, and he sank back into the dirt, letting out a weak, rattling laugh.
"What's so funny?" Red asked, watching him with weary, dark eyes.
"My own damn misfortune," Gibbs replied, staring up at the thick canopy above.
"Once upon a time, I could tumble off a merchant's mainmast, bounce off the gunwale, hit the deck, and wake up the next morning just cursing the bruises. Now… one young fool sticks me with a sword, and every bone in my body decides it's time to retire."
Red gave a faint, bittersweet smile. "Age is a cruel master, Joshua."
"Aye," Gibbs grunted. He tilted his head toward the painter. "Though you've carried me pretty far for an old codger yourself."
Red's smile faded away.
Gibbs took a long look at the old man. The question had been eating away at him ever since Trans Town had spiraled into chaos. "Why?"
Red turned his gaze away. "Why what?"
"Why are you going through all this trouble for us?" Gibbs pushed himself up a bit, trying to ignore the sharp pain in his side.
"You don't know me. You don't know Pintel, or Ragetti, or that big, flamboyant guy. Yet you welcomed me in, patched me up, and carried me across half this cursed island while a monster was hot on our heels."
Red stayed quiet, his eyes following the fog as it wove through the roots. When he finally spoke, his voice had a distant quality, like it was coming from deep within a well.
"Trans Town used to be something real."
Gibbs frowned, trying to grasp what Red meant.
"Not the town you saw," Red continued, a faint smile flickering across his face.
"The one that existed long before. Decades back. There were people everywhere, Gibbs. Kids who never listened to their mothers. Merchants who'd swindle you out of a belly-berry in the morning and then buy you a drink at night.
Old women who knew every bit of gossip from the high seas… I captured them all. I painted them, sculpted them. I made toys for the little ones. I wasn't anyone special. Just a guy with a brush."
His hands clenched in his lap. "I had a family. Friends. People I thought would always be there."
The warmth drained from Red's face, leaving it looking empty.
"But time takes its toll. People get old. They get sick. Pirates invade. Storms come crashing in. And some… just don't wake up. One by one, they disappeared. The baker. The fisherman. The kids grew up and either passed away or left the island in search of the Grand Line. Eventually… I realized I was the last one standing. The only person left who remembered the festivals. Who knew which tavern served the sour wine. Who remembered where the children used to race."
Red let out a hollow laugh. "So… I used my gift. I brought them back to life in my memories."
Gibbs closed his eyes, and everything clicked into place. The lively streets, the bustling market, the sound of laughter all around.
"They were your memories," he murmured. "A town full of ghosts."
"I could see them again," Red whispered, squeezing his eyes shut as if trying to hold onto a fleeting dream. "Talk to them. Walk those same streets. For just a little while… the world didn't feel so cold."
Gibbs studied the old painter, and there was no anger in his gaze—just a deep, haunting understanding.
"My wife used to hate it when I came home reeking of rum," Gibbs said out of the blue.
Red opened his eyes, curiosity piqued.
Gibbs managed a small, bittersweet smile. "She'd stand in the doorway, arms crossed, looking like she could curdle milk with that scowl. It didn't matter if I'd been away at sea for six months. The first thing she'd say was, 'Joshua Gibbs, if you dare to put those filthy boots on my clean floor, I'll toss you back to the sharks.'"
A soft chuckle slipped from Red's lips.
Gibbs' smile wavered, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "And my boy… God, he used to shadow me everywhere. Wanted to be a sailor, just like his old man. His mother nearly skinned me alive for it, but I'd sneak behind the shed and teach him how to tie a bowline anyway."
His gaze dropped to the dirt beneath them. "A raid. Rogue pirates with a vendetta against me. I was out at the tavern. By the time I got back… the house was nothing but ash."
Red fell quiet, absorbing the weight of the words.
"I wasn't meant to protect them," Gibbs rasped, his jaw tightening until it felt like it might crack. "I froze. I was weak. Twenty years I've spent drowning in rum, asking the same pointless questions. What if I had been stronger? What if I hadn't trusted the marines? What if… It's all useless. Just bloody useless."
Red looked at him with deep sympathy. "Don't you wish you could see them again? Even just for a moment?"
"Every single day of my life," Gibbs snapped, the words bursting forth from him.
Red's expression softened. "Then you understand."
"I get the pain, Red!" Gibbs shouted, coughing harshly as fresh blood stained his lips. He leaned heavily against the tree, trying to catch his breath.
"I know how it feels to want them back so desperately that it feels like your chest might burst. But I can't support what you're doing."
Red flinched at the words. "My town exists because I love them!"
"That town exists because you're too afraid to face the truth!" Gibbs shot back, his eyes igniting with a fierce, pirate-like intensity.
"If my wife stepped out of that fog right now, she wouldn't welcome me with open arms—she'd slap me for wasting the life I have left mourning over her grave! My son wouldn't want a ghost for a father! He'd want to hear about the grand adventures I've had! The legendary captains I've sailed with! Whether I became a man worth remembering!"
Gibbs slammed his fist into the ground. "I can't bring them back. I can't erase my mistakes. Maybe when I die, the Lord will let me say I'm sorry to them. If heaven even accepts old sea dogs like me. But until that day comes…"
He shot a fierce glare at Red. "I move on! I keep sailing! I protect the fools who are right here in front of me today! I stop another poor soul from losing his family! That's how you honor the dead, Red! You live! Turning your grief into a prison isn't love—it's making their deaths all about you!"
Red recoiled as if he'd been struck, his face losing all color. He opened his mouth to argue, to scream, but no sound came out.
The forest was eerily silent. The vibrant illusions of Trans Town had vanished. All that remained was the damp earth, the biting wind, and the harsh reality.
"How touchingly tragic."
Both men froze at the voice.
Patrick Redfield stood thirty paces away, shrouded in the pale mist. He made no sound—no rustling leaves, no snapping twigs.
Redfield's blood-red eyes scanned Gibbs with complete indifference before landing on the painter. "I've wasted enough time playing hide-and-seek with an old man."
Gibbs didn't flinch. Ignoring the pain screaming through his body, he pushed himself up against the trunk. His hand instinctively dropped to his belt.
Click. Click.
Two flintlock revolvers sprang from their holsters, aimed directly at Redfield's chest.
Redfield didn't even break his stride. "Stay down, pirate. You're already hurt."
Gibbs gritted his teeth, forcing his shaky legs to support him. "Aye. Sounds like wise advice." He raised the barrels, his vision blurring. "So naturally… I'm ignoring it."
Redfield let out a soft sigh, his tone dripping with boredom. "I have no interest in spilling more pointless blood today. Step aside."
"Can't do that."
"You can barely breathe."
"Aye."
"You cannot defeat me."
"Probably not."
"Then your death serves no purpose."
Gibbs flashed a bloody, terrifying grin. "Wouldn't be the first terrible choice I've made under Captain Jack Sparrow!"
Red stepped in front of him, panic rising. "Gibbs, don't! You don't have to—"
"Shut your mouth and get behind me!" Gibbs roared, never taking his eyes off the Red Count.
Redfield's eyes narrowed slightly. "You're of the same ilk as those three fools who tried to block my way earlier."
Gibbs' grin vanished in an instant. The revolvers dipped just a fraction. "…What did you say?"
Redfield's voice was smooth, cold, and utterly devoid of malice. "The ugly one with the eye patch. The one with the missing teeth. And the tall one in the dress. They're dead."
Silence hung heavy in the clearing. The wind stilled.
Gibbs stopped breathing.
Pintel. The brainless idiot who couldn't find his way out of a paper bag.
Ragetti. The half-blind fool who once thought seasoning a roast with gunpowder was a good idea before Robin doused it with water.
Gibbs couldn't shake the memories of their endless, ridiculous arguments over dice. He could still taste the awful, borderline-toxic meals they'd cooked together. And how, after downing three bottles of rum, they'd jokingly dubbed him 'Uncle Gibbs.'
A strange, trembling sensation began to stir in Gibbs' chest. His shoulders shook slightly, and a quiet, broken chuckle slipped from his lips, morphing into a harsh, bitter laugh.
"Bloody… stupid… bastards…"
Gibbs' eyes flew open. The grief that had clouded them was replaced by a fierce, blazing rage.
BANG! BANG!
Flames shot out from the gun barrels. Redfield merely tilted his head slightly to the left, the bullets whizzing harmlessly into the fog.
"RUN, RED!" Gibbs shouted, charging ahead with a limping, frantic gait.
"Gibbs—!"
"I SAID GO!"
BANG! BANG!
And just like that, Redfield was gone.
Before Gibbs could even process it, a shadow loomed over him. The wooden tip of Redfield's umbrella slammed into Gibbs' right wrist like a cannonball, sending his revolver flying into the underbrush. Gibbs snarled and swung his left gun like a club, but Redfield caught his forearm in a grip of iron.
A heavy, brutal knee crashed into Gibbs' already shattered ribs.
CRACK.
Blood erupted from Gibbs' mouth. His knees buckled, but before he could hit the ground, Redfield yanked him up by the collar, lifting the battered pirate like a ragdoll.
"I only want the artist," Redfield said, his crimson eyes scanning Gibbs' face with genuine annoyance. "Why throw your life away? You hardly know him."
Gibbs spat a mouthful of thick, dark blood right onto Redfield's pristine leather boot, letting out a rasping laugh.
"First off…" Gibbs wheezed, his vision fading at the edges, "…you killed my crew. So this is… pirate vengeance."
Redfield's expression hardened. "And second?"
Gibbs lifted his gaze, looking past the demon holding him, locking eyes with Red.
"Because… that's what a Caribbean Pirate does."
Redfield stared intently. "He's not part of your crew."
"Doesn't matter to me." Gibbs coughed, blood trickling down his chin. "My boy… would've wanted me to stand firm."
A shift in the atmosphere was palpable.
Redfield's Observation Haki flared up, diving deeper into the soul of the dying old man. He looked beyond the rough exterior, beyond the scent of salt and rum.
What he saw was haunting. A village engulfed in flames. A woman's desperate screams. A little boy reaching out from the inferno. Years of crushing guilt drowned in cheap liquor.
He witnessed an eccentric captain in a tricorn hat pulling a broken man from the gutter and offering him a ship. He saw Pintel and Ragetti. A makeshift, absurd family formed from society's outcasts.
And beneath it all, he sensed a stubborn, unyielding vow: Never again.
For just a heartbeat, Redfield's icy demeanor softened. A flicker of respect shone in his eyes.
CRACK!
With brutal precision, Redfield brought the butt of his umbrella crashing down onto Gibbs' knee. The joint twisted grotesquely.
Gibbs let out a gut-wrenching scream that echoed through the forest. Redfield struck again, shattering Gibbs' left shoulder before carelessly tossing his broken body into the dirt.
"NO!" Red screamed, rushing forward.
Gibbs lay face down in the mud, gasping for breath, his leg contorted at an unnatural angle. He was immobilized. He couldn't fight back.
Redfield loomed over him, his gaze cold and detached. "I promise I won't kill him. He's earned his life."
Red threw himself between Redfield and Gibbs, tears streaming down his weathered, ink-stained face. "Leave him be! Take me instead! Just spare him!"
Redfield raised an eyebrow, pausing for a moment. "And why should I? What could a ghost from the past possibly offer me?"
Red's hands balled into desperate, trembling fists.
Gibbs, lying in the dirt, caught the look in the painter's eyes and felt a surge of terrifying dread. "Red… don't… please don't…"
"I have what you came to this island for," Red said, his voice chillingly calm.
Redfield froze, the boredom that had once marked his demeanor evaporating, replaced by a sharp, predatory intensity. He slowly lowered his umbrella. "The Batto Batto no Mi, Model: Vampire."
Red's silence was deafening.
A slow, menacing grin crept across Redfield's face. "So, my intel was spot on. It's here." He took a measured step forward. "Is it hidden on this island? Or… have you already devoured it?"
A fleeting, fatal hesitation flickered in Red's eyes.
That was all the Red Count needed.
THWACK!
Without uttering a word, Redfield's umbrella shot forward like a spear, piercing Red right through the chest. Blood sprayed across the fallen leaves.
"RED!" Gibbs shouted, dragging his broken body forward with his one good arm, leaving a crimson trail in the dirt.
Red gasped, shock widening his eyes as Redfield casually pulled the bloodied tip from his body. The old painter staggered back, clutching his mangled abdomen, before collapsing heavily beside Gibbs.
Redfield stepped over them, casting a cold, satisfied glance at the bleeding artist. "Your hesitation was your downfall. You possess the fruit's power, yet you lack the strength to wield it."
Red coughed violently, dark crimson spilling from his lips. But as he looked up at the immortal monster looming over him, the old painter managed a slow… smile.
"You… will never… get it…" Red rasped.
Redfield's eyes ignited with a sudden, monstrous rage. "Then die with your memories."
He raised the umbrella high, the tip glinting with deadly intent. He brought it down—
BOOM!
A cataclysmic gust of wind erupted out of nowhere!