...
If I were a regular merchant sailor, and some seven-foot behemoth punched handholds into the side of my ship like a ladder, I might've also needed a moment. Especially if I had just shot at him with cannons and watched him leap bounds across the sea.
"He's boarding!" Somebody screamed.
"Thank you!" I yelled up, digging my fingers into the next plank and pulling myself higher. "I did notice!"
A sailor swung a long pole down at my head. I caught it with one hand. I looked at the pole, then looked up at him, then looked back at the pole again
"Brother," I said.
He tried to pull it back.
I pulled first, and the sailor yelped as he came flying over the rail, arms flailing and mouth open in the kind of scream a grown man should be embarrassed about. I caught the back of his shirt before he could fall into the sea, then swung him up and over me.
He hit the deck with a loud, wooden thud.
I finally got one hand on the railing and hauled myself over.
A man near the mast dropped a crate.
Another sailor whispered, "It's him."
I turned my head slowly. "It's me."
Around me, the deck was packed with more people than I expected. Actual sailors, armed guards, a few merchants huddled in the corner. There were maybe twenty of them in total, not counting whoever was hiding below deck, and at least ten had weapons out.
Cutlasses. Spears. One guy had a frying pan.
The cannons were lined along the port side, still smoking slightly from the shots they had wasted on my tiny boat. My old vessel bobbed in the distance behind us, cracked down the middle from where I had launched myself off it.
I stared at it.
For two whole weeks, that stupid thing had carried me across the sea.
I sighed. "Damn."
One of the guards swallowed. "Is… is he upset about the boat?"
"I don't know," another whispered. "Shoot him again."
I turned.
The guard with the musket had almost finished aiming when I crossed the deck. He did not even get to blink properly. I was in front of him, my hand wrapped around the barrel of his gun.
He stared up at me as I bent the barrel sideways with my thumb, then I flicked him in the forehead, which knocked him to the floor.
I had been bored for fourteen days. Fourteen. Do you understand what fourteen days with only ocean, stale biscuits, and a judgmental seagull does to a man?
The next one came at me with a cutlass, shouting something incoherent. I stepped inside the swing, caught his wrist, and squeezed until the weapon dropped from his hand. I didn't break the wrist, though I was considering it.
Instead, I turned him by the arm and threw him into two other men rushing me from the side.
They all went down together in a pile.
A spear came for my ribs.
The point bit through the ruined remains of my shirt and scraped against my skin. It pressed hard enough to bruise, maybe hard enough to draw a little blood, but the wound barely mattered. My body had gotten used to most things; a spear was still dangerous, obviously, but the first touch told me enough.
Sharp point, forward pressure, but a weak wielder.
I grabbed the spear and yanked.
The man holding it came with it.
"Hey!" I said.
He screamed directly in my face. I headbutted him, knocking him to the ground as well. The wheel mark on my right hand gave a faint little pulse; I flexed my fingers. The tattoo sat dark against my skin, partly hidden under salt, blood, and torn fabric. One of the sailors saw me looking at it, his face deathly pale.
I noticed.
He noticed me noticing.
"You," I said.
He pointed at himself with a trembling finger.
"Yeah, you. What's your name?"
"P-Pelli."
"Pelli," I said, walking toward him while the rest of the deck backed away like I had become everyone's least favourite weather event. "Why did you shoot at me?"
Pelli's eyes flicked to the others. "C-Captain's orders."
"Cool. Where's the captain?"
Pelli lifted one shaking hand and pointed toward the quarterdeck.
At the top of the stairs stood a broad man in a dark blue coat with gold buttons, a thick moustache, and the kind of face that suggested he had spent his whole life yelling at people who were not allowed to yell back. He had one hand on a pistol and the other on the rail, but he had not drawn yet.
Smart.
Or scared.
Same result, really.
I looked up at him. "Captain?"
The man's jaw tightened. "Captain Rusk of the Blue Gull Trading Company."
I blinked.
Then I laughed.
Not loudly at first. Just a small breath through my nose, because of course. Of course the company flag had a bird on it. Of course, my first proper ship after the stupid seagull was called the Blue Gull. The universe had its jokes.
"Blue Gull?" I asked.
His moustache twitched. "That is correct."
"I hate birds."
Several sailors looked at each other, clearly unsure what to do with that information.
Captain Rusk drew his pistol.
I pointed at him. "Now before you do something stupid, I want you to think very carefully about the last five minutes of your life."
"I know who you are," Rusk said, voice stiff but not shaking. Credit where credit was due, he had more spine than the stick guy. "Kai Voss. Former Petty Officer of the Shells Town Branch. A murderous traitor!"
I pointed to my chest.
"You killed your captain." Rusk spat.
"Yeah, I saw the poster," I said, and the memory made my eye twitch because the poster was still sitting in my stupid little boat, along with Vale's ledger and most of my berries "Very dramatic, by the way. Dead or alive. Treason. Murder. Theft of government records. Really packed the page."
"You admit it then?"
"I admit whoever the photographer was did their job well," I said.
Rusk's expression tightened. "This is not a joke."
"Captain, you shot cannons at a tiny boat; the joke started way before I got here."
Rusk did not lower the pistol, though, and credit where it was due, he had more spine than the stick guy, although that spine was currently doing a lot of work keeping him from shaking himself apart. "You are a wanted criminal. You killed your commanding officer, attacked a Marine branch, and stole government property."
"Fah! She was a bitch"
"That is not for me to judge."
"Yeah, whatever dude," I said, taking one step forward.
His finger tightened on the trigger.
"You boarded my ship," he said.
"You fired first."
"You were approaching without flag or clearance."
"I was waving?"
Rusk's face reddened. "Enough."
He fired.
The shot hit my shoulder.
Not my face, which I appreciated, although not enough to forgive him. The bullet punched through muscle with a sharp burst of heat, and my arm jerked back as blood ran down my skin; the pain was there for a moment, then settled.
The wheel mark on my right hand gave a faint pulse.
I rolled my shoulder and looked at the wound.
The deck had gone silent again; Rusk stared at the blood on my shoulder. The sailors stared too. I could feel the bullet sitting wrong under the skin, hot and irritating, then not even a moment later, the bullet pushed itself out with a wet little pop and dropped onto the deck.
Everyone looked down.
The bleeding slowed.
I flexed my fingers.
"Mine now," I said, picking the bullet up between two fingers.
Rusk whispered, "Devil Fruit."
I smiled at him. "Allegedly."
Some sailors ran toward the bow as one swung a cutlass for my neck; I caught the blade between both palms. The edge bit into my skin and the metal groaned as I pressed harder until the sword snapped.
The guard stared at the broken hilt.
I leaned closer. "Refund."
Then I kicked him in the chest.
He flew backward into a stack of crates, smashed through the side, and disappeared in a burst of splinters, straw, and dried fruit. The second guard beside him saw that, lowered his spear halfway, then seemed to have a very private conversation with his own survival instincts.
He dropped the spear.
"Good choice."
He nodded too fast and stepped back.
A sailor near the hatch tried to pull it shut, probably to seal me on deck or protect whatever was below. I crossed the distance before he could finish, grabbed the hatch with one hand, and ripped it from the hinges. The sailor looked from the hatch, to my hand, to my face.
"This was probably expensive," I said.
He fainted.
"Very fragile crew," I muttered, tossing the hatch aside. "Oi Pelli, come with me!"
The hold below smelled like sweat and old wood. I started down the stairs.
Rusk shouted behind me, "Stop him!"
Nobody stopped me.
Beautiful.
The hold was darker and warmer than the deck, lit by swinging lanterns that threw yellow light over crates stacked in tight rows. Some barrels were lashed to the walls, and there were sacks piled beneath netting, and most of the cargo carried the same blue gull company stamp. I moved deeper inside, running my hand over the markings as the ship rocked beneath my feet.
Blue gull.
Blue gull.
Blue gull.
Then my fingers paused.
A small black dot had been painted beside the company stamp on one crate near the centre of the hold. It was almost nothing. Just a mark in the corner, the kind of thing you would miss if you did not spend two weeks losing your mind over Vale's tiny, stupid handwriting and all her neat little codes.
I stared at it.
The ledger had marks like that.
A circle with a slash. A fishhook. A black dot beside certain ports and shipments.
The wheel mark on my hand pulsed once.
"Oh," I said quietly.
Footsteps creaked behind me.
I turned.
Pelli stood halfway down the stairs with both hands raised, face pale enough that I almost felt bad for him. Almost. "Please don't hurt me…" he said quickly.
"Well, that depends on how useful you are."
He nodded so hard I worried he might detach something important. "Very useful. I can be very useful."
"Great." I pointed at the marked crate. "What's the black dot?"
Pelli looked at it, and his expression told me enough.
"I don't know."
I sighed.
He flinched.
"Pelli."
"I swear, I don't know the full thing," he rushed out. "I just know those crates don't get opened. They go straight to Dockhouse Three."
My eyes narrowed. "Port Tragedy?"
He nodded.
I smiled. "So you do know where Port Tragedy is."
"I know the route."
"Congratulations, Pelli. You just got promoted."
"To what?"
I shrugged, "You…stay alive, I guess."
He nodded immediately. "Much thanks!"
I turned back to the crate and hooked my fingers under the lid. The nails squealed as I ripped it open.
Medicine.
Rows of glass bottles packed in straw. Bandages. Sealed boxes. Small tins with printed labels. I opened the next marked crate.
More medicine.
The third had food stock. Not luxury food either. Flour, preserved meat, dried fruit, grain.
Shells Town came back to my mind, and I threw the lid of the box away.
I looked at Pelli. "Who owns the cargo?"
"The company," he said automatically, then saw my face and corrected himself so fast the words almost tripped over each other. "Marlo Grest. It's Grest's cargo. The company stamp is just cover."
"There we go," I said. "Look at us communicating."
Pelli swallowed. "Are you going to kill Captain Rusk?"
"Not unless he makes it weird."
"He might make it weird."
"I noticed."
I pushed past him and walked back up the stairs, carrying one of the medicine crates under my arm. The deck had changed while I was below. Most of the sailors had retreated toward the bow, while the armed guards left standing had formed a loose line in front of Rusk. Their weapons were raised, but nobody looked excited about it. Rusk had reloaded his pistol.
I stepped fully onto the deck and dropped the crate in the middle of the planks.
Glass clinked inside.
"Captain Rusk," I said, "we need to have a customer service conversation."
His eyes flicked to the crate.
Good.
He knew.
"You have stolen medicine in your hold."
Rusk's expression hardened. "This is lawful cargo."
"Wrong answer."
"We transport goods. We do not interrogate every private contract."
"Wronger answer."
His jaw clenched.
I stepped forward.
"You fired cannons at me because of my bounty," I said. "You recognised me fast, which means somebody warned you to watch for me. You have Grest's cargo. You know about Port Tragedy and Dockhouse Three"
Rusk said nothing.
I smiled. "So here's what's going to happen."
"You do not give orders on my ship."
I looked around at the broken weapons, unconscious guards, ripped hatch, smashed crates, and sailors packed together like they were trying to become one larger coward.
Then I looked back at him.
"Captain," I said gently, "I think we're well past that."
I climbed the steps to the quarterdeck.
Two guards stepped into my path. I kept walking, and when the first swung, I dipped under the cut and drove my shoulder into his stomach. He came off his feet, hit the rail hard enough to empty his lungs, and slumped down wheezing. The second guard took one look at him, then looked at me, then very carefully placed his sword on the deck.
I patted his shoulder as I passed.
Rusk backed up until his spine hit the ship's wheel. He lifted the pistol again, but I caught his wrist before he could fire and squeezed until the gun dropped from his hand. He tried not to make a sound. He failed a little.
I leaned close. "Where's Marlo Grest?"
Rusk spat in my face.
The whole deck went still.
Slowly, I closed my eyes.
Rude.
I wiped the spit off my face then grabbed him by the collar, lifted him one-handed, and held him over the rail. His boots kicked above open air, the ocean rolling dark beneath him, and I made sure my grip was good because the sea and I were not exactly on speaking terms anymore. Devil Fruit or not, I was not going to turn a dramatic threat into the world's dumbest drowning.
"Wait!" Rusk choked.
"Oh, now we're waiting."
"Grest is at Port Tragedy!"
"Details."
"He controls Dockhouse Three through shell companies. He pays harbour clerks, customs officers, local Marines, private guards. Cargo comes in under company stamps, gets moved through warehouse channels, then sold through auctions or private buyers."
"What cargo?"
"Mainly medicine, food and weaponry"
I lowered him an inch.
His boots scraped the side of the hull.
"And?"
His eyes bulged. "Sometimes people."
The air changed.
My grip tightened.
"Slaves?"
"Debtors," Rusk said quickly. "Prisoners and labour contracts, but I don't handle that cargo."
"But you know about it."
"I just transport the goods!"
I lowered him again.
His breath caught.
"No people on this ship," he rushed out. "I swear. I swear on my company, on my life, on everything. This run is medicine, food stock, textiles, and ammunition. No people."
"Pelli?"
Pelli made a sound from behind me that proved he had not expected to become part of the murder conversation. "I-I think he's telling the truth."
I glanced back. "You think?"
"We checked the hold before leaving. No people. I swear."
Good.
That was good.
Because if there had been people in the hold, this was about to become much harder to keep funny.
I pulled Rusk back over the rail and dropped him onto the deck. He landed on his side, coughing and clutching his throat, while I crouched beside him.
"You are going to take me to Port Tragedy."
"No," he rasped.
I smiled.
He stared at me for one full second, then looked at the medicine crate, the broken guards, the crew, the ocean, and finally his own empty hand where the pistol used to be.
His shoulders sagged. "Fine."
"See? Teamwork."
"You'll be killed there," Rusk said, voice hoarse. "Grest has men. Guns. Marines. The harbour belongs to him."
"Sounds profitable."
"You don't understand what you're walking into."
"I rarely do."
"That is not a strength."
"Well, I disagree."
A groan came from the broken crate pile near the mast. The guard I had kicked earlier pushed a plank off his chest and sat up. He looked around, saw me looking at him, then very carefully lay back down again.
I stood and faced the crew.
"Okay, new management announcement," I said, raising my voice so everyone could enjoy the privilege of being alive at the same time. "Nobody else has to get beaten up today unless they really, really want to be. I am taking this ship to Port Tragedy. You are all going to keep doing your jobs because I do not know how to sail a ship, and I'm emotionally mature enough to admit that."
No one spoke.
"Food will be brought to me. A lot of it. Water too. Fresh clothes, if you have anything that fits, which you probably don't because the world is built for short kings. Someone will patch up the people I hit. Not him though"
I pointed at Rusk.
"He can think about his choices."
Rusk glared from the deck.
I pointed harder.
He looked away.
"Good. Also, anyone who tries to send a message ahead to Grest, signal the Marines, poison my food, stab me in my sleep, or do anything else creative and annoying will be thrown into my old boat."
Pelli frowned despite looking like fear had personally adopted him. "Your old boat is sinking."
"Exactly."
My old boat.
Sinking.
My smile froze.
The deck went quiet again, but this time it was because everyone watched my expression change.
I turned slowly toward the sea.
Out past the side of the ship, my tiny stolen boat bobbed in the distance, split low along one side, dipping deeper with every wave.
Inside it was Vale's ledger and my remaining berries.
My eye twitched.
Pelli's face crumpled with immediate regret. "Oh."
I took one step toward the rail.
Then another.
The little boat tilted.
A wave rolled over its side.
…
End of Chapter!
Word Count - 3116