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[PKMN OPEN] Into the Great Open Blue: Take Off (IC)

Jauntier

Where was your antennas again?
690
Posts
8
Years
  • Age 33
  • USA
  • Seen Apr 6, 2018
Ends Meet

Throngs of Pokémon in various states of dress and engagement preoccupied themselves throughout the marketplace. The high noon sun made the weather balmy, and even under the shady canopy of a street vendor stand, the breeze still carried a pleasant heat. It was still more than enough to dew a forehead for this particular merchant, as the Golduck wiped the sweat from his brow. He cleared his throat as he continued to address the Pokémon who stood across his rough wooden counter top. He tried not to look himself in the eye, as his image reflected in the giant iron nail that stayed bored through his customer's head.

"... Yes," said the Golduck, attempting to keep the unease in his voice masked. "I hand-wove these myself. They'd look very good on you."

The Banette tapped the nail lodged in her head as she deliberated briefly, her other eye scrutinizing the set of straw hats before her. Her eye snapped back to the sweating Golduck, and she gave him a wide grin full of latched brass teeth.

"Why, thank you!" The lively excitement in her voice caught the merchant off guard yet again, and it showed in a slight recoil of his shoulders. He noticed that she spoke clearly through clenched teeth. "But I don't need a hat, why, it's for a few of my friends here!"

The Banette motioned behind her, her hand passing over the small group who surrounded her. As it swept past a sharp-eyed and cocked-grin Scizor who leaned on one makeshift crutch, and a Passimian with a cracked helmet who appeared to wince every now and then from sores, her motion landed on a profusely sweating Toxicroak and a panting Persian with a ragged tricorn on his head. The Toxicroak let out a low, ornery croak from his swelling throat as the Persian offered a formal "Hello."

She continued, pointing at the Toxicroak and then the Persian as she went. "That one's Enzo and that one's Barbosa. Now Enzo used to have a big, long red bandanna tied around his head, and he said it was made of a special cloth that soaked up sea spray and kept him cool, but he lost that." The frowning Toxicroak kept batting his eyes, blinking away sweat that rolled off his brow. "And Barbosa's captain hat is a big tattered mess, it is!"

The Persian lifted a paw and pressed it against the Banette's near-pristine white dress. "No," he solemnly interjected, his distant island accent seasoning his words. "It suits me just fine."

"It doesn't." The Banette's eye widened a bit as she glanced up to the Scizor. They both had chided Barbosa at the same time. She began to chuckle as the Scizor took the floor with the testy tap of his crutch on the ground.

The Scizor groaned, "Captain, just let Anarchy buy you a damn hat. It won't do you any good against the sun. It's got more holes than a net and you're huffing like a hound."

Barbosa gave a stern look to the insect, licking his chapped lips before dryly stating, "It's the sentimental value of it."

"It's the pride of it," the Scizor rebutted. "I thought you lost that last night with all your weepy woe talk. You're as complicated as a female!"

The Scizor doubled over in pain as the Banette delivered a swift boot to his abdomen before pointing to a stack of straw sun hats. The Golduck darted his eyes between the wheezing, cursing Scizor and the smiling, unaffected Ghost as she sang over croaking and a lemur's laugh: "Two of those, please!"

Enzo found his slick forehead now shaded by the hat he donned, though he scratched at a couple itches it caused. The Golduck counted the change in his webbed hand as Anarchy, the Banette, tried to offer her other purchase to Barbosa. The Persian shook his head.

"Anne," he insisted, his voice low only for her, "Thank you, but I cannot wear that hat. I have to meet the Admiral as I am: A castaway captain. This, my hat, is my status—disgraced and all. He needs to see the state in which our journey has left it—us. It is my responsibility, Anne. I have to be true the position."

Anarchy gripped the straw hat as she listened to her captain's words, holding it up to her chest as her face dimmed in consideration. She understood her captain's intention, but she had already spent coin on the gesture. Barbosa in truth had no business out of bed, she knew, as his state was just barely stable after Doctor Keahi and her assistant Kaipo examined and fed him this morning. With the sun beaming upon his short fur coat, he could easily become exhausted by the hot weather alone, and yet he forced himself to sneak away with Anarchy and the others when the Doctor and Kaipo were out on another emergency run. She felt it was the least she could do, but her captain was a rigid 'mon.

A strong palm slapped against her back and gave her a jolt. She looked up to the culprit, the Passimian, who pointed a finger at her and teased in his thick sing-song accent, "Ah-ah! Anarchy push up fire!" Anarchy giggled, remembering the Passimian's foreign phrase meant she was starting trouble. She tried to waive it off with a mock-exasperated "Emmanuel," but Emmanuel kept talking, his pointing finger now a thumb directed at the hobbled-over Scizor. "Give to Vincent, ya? He need charity-ah. You bust up his tush!"

The Scizor moaned with a pincer over his abdomen, "It's the least you can do for me... Ugh, nearly spit up the bit I had for breakfast... You cheeky girl..."

Vincent was promptly crowned with the hat. As the Scizor began to swat a claw at a teasing Emmanuel and cooing Anarchy, Barbosa curtly interrupted, saying "We should be on our way. Thank you for the hats, sir."

At that stern cue, Emmanuel and Anarchy returned to attention as the Golduck merchant held out the pouch of remaining coin. Anarchy reached out with a spirited "Thank you," to the hat-weaver, and took the little burlap purse, quickly sifting a thick finger through its contents to make sure the balance of the transaction was what it should have been. The count was proper, though she did withdraw a few coin to keep for herself before pulling the pouch's drawstring shut tight. She then offered the purse over to Emmanuel, who gave her an acknowledging nod. Taking his other hand, the Passimian lifted the cracked green berry husk of a helmet on his head. The matted bush of white fur felt a breeze for a bit before he sat the pouch square on the center of his cranium, pushing the helmet back on securely on his head. Anarchy had entrusted Emmanuel to keep safe the little bit of change Doctor Keahi provided her, and so he gave her a firm grunt to assure her everything was in place. As the crew said their goodbyes to the native and departed from the stand, Anarchy was quick to head the group yet again as she took back to the road, everyone else sauntering close behind.

Her eyes darted back and forth at all the colorful commotion that lined the market avenue. She couldn't help but twirl around on her boot to face the gang as she skipped backwards, exclaiming, "So now that that's done and over with, does anybody remember which way was the tavern?"

The males in the pack exchanged glances as they pointed in different directions, only to end up giving each other befuddled looks. There were groans all around as Vincent spat, "Oh Arceus, let's just get out of here!" Breaking the formation, he exasperatedly lumbered apart from the group, cutting across the road on his crutch looking almost sure of himself. The rest gave each other a wordless and partly-amused concession as he shouted over his shoulder, "Is it so hard to find a damn cave in the wall?!" The four decided to follow behind, figuring they'd lose nothing if Vincent ended up being just as wrong as they likely were.


***​


The storefront of each stall Cook and the Oracle passed seemed more colourful than the last. It was certainly an exuberant way of attracting eyeballs to one's business. Fabrics, carrying bags, footwear, rugs, and more! And the Seer had to admit, it worked, even on her usually-focused gaze. Perhaps a little more colour was all she needed, after that extended vacation of seclusion.

One of the colourful stops, coming up on their right, didn't appear to be a storefront at all. Instead, a square table stood in the outdoor market, and customers had gathered, standing all around its four sides. The old Xatu, giving into her curiosity, slipped away from Cook to have a look, joining the others at the table. She didn't expect to be long -- she'd catch up with Cook shortly, right?

The table's surface was slanted inward, a bowl-like depression at its center and all four edges raised. In its center, a six-by-six grid of coloured squares were painted. Each square had a round pit. The Xatu was just catching on that this must be not a shop, but a game instead -- when a Golem spoke up nearby, gathering the customers' attention, including her own.

"Alright, everyone in? On the count of three --" His arm reached overtop the table, pointing with each count. "One, two, three!"

Three different customers reach rolled a wooden ball toward the table's center. The three spheres rolled over the coloured squares, swirling and bumping into each other, but eventually losing momentum. As they came closer and closer to stopping in one of the pits, the participants around the table let out enthusiastic noises, pointing or balling their fists. "Oh, oh, OHH!"

The first of the balls settled down on its own, sitting in a yellow-square pit, while the remaining two bumped into each other again, causing them to fall to a blue and a yellow square. There was a smattering of cheering, and as the Seer looked up, she noticed the Golem both taking and giving out silver berries to different participants -- and not just the three who had rolled the balls in the first place.

"Alright, alright!" He kept the mood enthusiastic with his tone and his smile, even if his heavy brow and hardened exterior gave the appearance of something much less lighthearted. "Who's next? That was a good round for the golds, will it swing that way again? Bets go on the edge of the table!"

The Oracle felt her feathers perk up on the back of her head. Betting? The game looked delightfully carnival-esque, even family-friendly, and yet, there was money to be had here! The bird fetched out the few silver berries Cook had given her for the day's errands. If she could double them, she was sure the Hydreigon would be pleased.

As she moved to put her money down on green, the Golem placed his hand on the table, squarely in her way. "Sorry, ma'am," he said, catching her eye with a firm, but not unkind, gaze. "No psychics."

The bird's smile disappeared in an instant, and she took a half-step back from the man. "I beg your pardon?"

"I can't let psychics play here. Sorry. It is a game of chance, after all."

"What exactly are you implying, sir," the Seer questioned, frowning and beginning to feel offended.

The Golem let out a small sigh, one that said he'd been through this before and he didn't care much to do it again. "Look, one of two things are gonna happen, if I let psychics play here." He held up a digit. "One. They predict exactly where them balls are gonna land." Another digit. "Two. They use that telekinesis and make the balls land where they want."

"I am not a cheater, good sir. To even imply--"

"I gotta keep it fair, ma'am. You got an unfair advantage over the other players, you know? It's nothing pers--"

"Your implications here are that all psychics would use their powers to cheat," the Oracle said, spreading a wing toward the table as she got worked up. "You realize what that constitutes, don't you?"

The Golem took a defensive position, while keeping firmly grounded on his stance. "Hey, it's not like that! But some of you psys are gonna do it, and if I can't tell which ones are the bad ones, I gotta make a rule to keep 'em all out!"

"Oh come now! Your explanation is the picture of discrimination!"

With the conflict escalating in volume, the other players couldn't help but watch. The argument was beginning to gather attention from shoppers at other stalls, and passersby, as well. Some even stopped in their tracks to watch, likely anticipating something more exciting to erupt from the fuss. As more Pokémon began to collect in little groups to watch the squabble, a small levee of bystanders formed off the flow of foot traffic. It wasn't long, though, before that levee broke.

"Excuse me, excuse me," shouted a voice, as not soon after, a Scizor with a straw sun hat, a foot cast, and a wooden crutch shouldered his way through. "Half-dead, Arceus-forsaken castaways coming through!" The disrupted onlookers gave him puzzled, curious, and irritated stares as he shoved past. Following close behind him was a leering Toxicroak with a matching hat, a rawboned and profusely apologetic Persian with an unkempt tricorn on his head, a Passimian glancing around uncomfortably with a stiff walk, and a grinning creature in a white dress with an unholy nail replacing an eye. To the last one, there were slight gasps and the shoppers seemed much more willing to part.

The Scizor continued to jeer over the din as he made his way in. "Didn't mean to steal the show,'" he started, and raised his crutch as he balanced on his good foot, "But now that I've got an audience: Where in bloody blazes is the Captain's Ire!?"

"Fayn's Retreat," replied a voice from knee level. A Gible, raising his voice to be heard above the squawk of irritated Xatu. "Shitty neighbourhood, that! Stick around here, you lot look ill enough already without downing Ire's brew," the small fellow advised with a laugh.

The Scizor replied with his own scoff. "Shitty! Well break my leg a second time! I've suffered worse!" Then he peered down at the little Dragon, asking, "Which way's Fayn's?"

The Gible pointed down the aisle between the double line of shorefronts. "When ya clear all the shops, due left. Straight on till the streets turn to shit and the walls crumble 'round ya. As for the Ire, just follow the ruckus. Noisier than--"

"My mon-- my money's no good here? Do you hear yourself speaking, boy?!" an old bird squawked nearby.

"...Well, than a psychic squabble."

The Scizor's stare turned into an irritated leer as he glanced over his shoulder at a Xatu and Golem verbally duking it out. By the way the two of them almost violently knocked their arms around in gesticulation, he figured they were the original centers of attention. His yellow eyes rolled back to the Gible, as he gave a tired, derisive smile. "Great," he offered wryly. Then he raised his voice for the last time with a flourish of his pincer to the oblivious couple behind him. "Thank you all, and I leave you to return to your show!" The Scizor gave a loud whistle, catching the attention of his nearby crew, who were either intent on watching him or the commotion in which the natives seemed to be enthralled at a distance. He cocked his head to gesture in the direction the Gible had pointed to him, and began to lumber down the road. The Persian, Toxicroak, and Passimian hastily followed suit, but not the Pokémon with the flowing white dress and the single eye. That one instead trotted over to the source of the local drama, and standing herself right beside a screeching Xatu, tapped the bird on the shoulder.

The avian's head whipped around, putting her beak's point just in front of the ghost type's face. "What--" Realizing just a moment belated that her ire was misdirected, the Xatu reigned in her bitterness and her volume. Her feathers ceased standing on end, settling on only half-ruffled. "What?" she asked again, half-calm this time. Partially distracted by the unusual metallic disk over this Pokémon's eye, and of course partially distracted by the offensive game-stall owner.

As the dark-grey Pokémon pensively scratched at the stitched-up scars on her face, she whispered through her sealed zipper track of a mouth, "Don't be so fussy! You could be spending your time and money on something more worthwhile, don't you think?" Her red eye stared into the gaze of the Xatu.

"This is a matter of principle, dear girl!" the Xatu replied with a frown, though not as deep-seated a one as reserved for the Golem. "Elemental type discrimination isn't an issue to stand down on. As long as I still breathe, I have rights."

The grey Pokémon put a plush, pointed finger to her chin as her eye glanced off in thought. Suddenly, she threw up her three-fingered hands and slammed them down on the edge of the Golem's game table. Leaning over the board as she stood on her tiptoes, she announced, "Ho! Rockefeller!" The Golem snapped to attention at the almost specific-sounding, yet incorrect name. The grey Pokémon admittedly had never seen this species before, but as the creature's body appeared like a chunk of earth, she dubbed him her catch-all name for unacquainted Rock-types. "I was on the sidelines listening in on your noisy racket!" She gave a quick tilt of her head in a motion back to the other species of which she knew not the name. "Miss Beakley has been squawking about you being right rude about Psychic-types! For shame!" She pointed to her single pink eye. "Everybody with an eye can see a cheating Psychic from a mile away, anyway!"

The Golem responded by lodging a set of knuckles against what would equate to his hip. "Well hell, I can't tell if she'd cheat or not. I'm just tryin' to play it safe."

Rocking back on her feet, she poised herself on her heels and pointed a directive finger at the Golem. "Then let's make a bet, Rockefeller!"

"That is my business model. Whatcha got in mind, missy?"

The grey Pokemon picked up a ball in her mitt and held it up beside her. "Surely I'm no psychic, but I'm going to make a prediction. I'll turn my back and toss this ball over my shoulder. As I do, I'm going to call out a color. If it lands on that color, you're going to pay me double the prize—that's compensation for all the trouble you've put me through coming up with this bet! And if I lose, then I'll pay you double the fee. How's that?"

"So long as you don't got eyes in the back o' your head, that sounds just fine with me," he replied, amiable.

And the Xatu had settled down as well, watching the Banette make a deal. A couple of her feather-tips just happened to brush along the ball's surface, and the bird shut her left eye. The light contact aided her scrying ability, and a moment of the object's future flashed before the Xatu's vision in her right eye.

The rocky fellow was too distracted to take notice, occupied with collection of his payment. "Alright, you get your lucky shot, this is comin' back to you doubled. G'luck, miss!" He set the ghoulish Pokemon loose on the game table. All eyes were on her, including the Xatu's. In that moment, with her back turned to the table, and money on the line... for some reason, there was only one thought taking up the one-eyed stranger's mind: one color in particular.

"Hmm... Purple!" As the brazen grey Pokemon tossed the ball over her shoulder, it landed onto the board. When the rolling sound finally came to an audible halt, a collective gasp rose up around her.

The Golem called it, straightfaced. "Purple." He raised both arms, a smile breaking out. "The one-eyed stranger doubles her wager!" With that, the crowd cheered for her, and her bold bet paying off, a few of them going so far as to jump into the air. The Golem of course, used this to his advantage, even if he was handing the lady a tidy sum of coins. "Whoooo's up next, folks? Think you can match her luck? Bigger bets reap bigger rewards!"

For the psychic avian, she seemed satisfied for some reason now that the ghost had gotten to play. She met the gaze of the one-eyed Pokemon, who said to her with a bold grin as the grey stranger flashed coin in her hand, "Walk with me, Miss Beakley," and stepped on by.

The so-called Beakley tilted her head at the odd request, made so boldly without a reason given. But considering her limited options -- the gambling game wouldn't welcome her kind, and her Hydreigon friend is long gone from sight -- the bird didn't see any harm in joining her. She swiftly caught up, and walked at her side.

"So," the mysterious Pokemon began, turning her head to the side to get a better view of her new walking companion. The reflection of the Xatu took center on the Pokemon's huge nail head. "I've won all these pretty coins, but I'll be frank with you: I only played the game for you." With her one red eye studying the Xatu's expression now as she spoke, she held out her hand full of coin to the bird. "Consider these earnings ours. Take your share!"

"Well, I probably shouldn't, but little point in refusing a kind offer," the Oracle replied with a hint of a smile on her beak. The coins being offered floated into the air at her direction, and obediently joined their new friends in the small money pouch that the bird held out. "Thank you, dear. So... I take it you know, then? If you're splitting the money, that is."

The Xatu's strange new companion didn't answer her, instead preoccupying herself with tossing up her own coins in the air, catching them and giggling. In the middle of her third tossup, something blue swiped up the coins mid-air. With a gasp through her brass teeth and a wide eye, she turned around with an indignant look on her face and her arms akimbo. Standing behind her was the sweating Toxicroak from before. He scratched at his straw hat with one hand while he rattled the coins in his other fist, staring down at her irritably.

He croaked, "Anne," with a warning tone. The grey Pokemon grabbed at the skirt of her white dress and pouted, "Enzo!"

"Anne," Enzo the Toxicroak continued, "We're waiting. Come."

The odd Pokemon named Anne draped her arm around the Xatu instead and raised a finger to the bird's beak. "... Beakley. Beakley?" She then pointed a finger at Enzo. "... Enzo!"

"Vincent." The voice not coming from the frowning Toxicroak, an astonished Anne looked back over her shoulder to see a crutch-bearing Scizor in a straw tricorn introduce himself. "Now that we're done proper introductions," the insect said with an edge of annoyance, "Let's get to Captain's Ire. Barbosa and Emmanuel are ahead and waiting for us, Anarchy."

"Anarchy Anne!" Anarchy exclaimed this for herself with a proud grin as she leaned over to the Xatu to clarify, "That's what they call me, Beakley. Oh! I've got an idea: you should come with me!"

Both Vincent and Enzo stated, "No." When met with Anarchy's disapproving stare and her tapping boot, Vincent decided to explain. "This is private business. We can't just bring in uninvited guests to see the damn bastard, Anarchy."

The ghoulish Pokemon replied, smirking, "I know that much, but we're just going to walk and talk, Beakley and I! There's no harm in that! Am I not sensible?" Before she could let Vincent react with a wisecrack, she added over Enzo's low and anxious croak, "Let's go, Beakley. Tell me about yourself!"

"Well, first of all, my name's not Beakley." She wore a calm smile, saying so mostly for the benefit of those who weren't there for the nickname christening. Her tone betrayed her age, if her eyes and feathers didn't show enough signs of it; she was most likely the elder of everyone present. She took up step in the direction of the group's destination, prompting first Anne, then the rest, to fall into Anne's recommendation. It would be harder to ditch her if they were all going the same way, after all. "I am a Seer, just recently recruited on board the Safe Journey. The vessel is stopping here in this port town for a spell." Her gaze cast out among the passersby. "I'm sure the rest of the crew is out and about as well."

Vincent grunted as shuffled along with his crutch. "Well, 'Seer' isn't much of a name, madame," he said. "And I've never heard of the Safe Journey before, either."

Anarchy excitedly cut in. "Is your crew well-known?"

The bird tilted her head up, running feathers along the underside of her beak thoughtfully. "You know, I'm not certain. I've never heard of them before, but I'm far from the first person to ask. The captain calls us the Blue Bands." She looked over to the hobbling gentleman next. "No, Seer is a title, a...pursuit. But Oracle is just as good, if you don't care for that particular title, dear!" she chirped, pleased with the alternative even if it held exactly the same issue.

"And Anne here --" The bird gave a friendly nod to the ghoul at her side. "Nice to meet you, Anne -- she broke up a spat taking place at a game stall I was trying to play." For now, she left out the fact that she was part of that spat. It wasn't exactly becoming of her.

"And you folk?" the Seer asked, looking across the trio. "Sky-farers as well? Landlubbers?" she guessed, before chuckling and covering up her beak with a wing. "Oh, listen to this old bird, already infected with the dialect."

Anarchy pursed her mouth as if she was about to speak, but Vincent quickly cut in. "To summarize," he grunted, giving Anarchy a warning side-eye that left her in a cross-armed huff, "We're a merchant crew who got ourselves into a sorry situation and now we're going to talk to our captain's captain." The limping Scizor's terse response and the low, throaty croak of anxiousness from the otherwise silent Toxicroak made it clear that the situation still left a sour taste. The Oracle sensed this, and aside from a quiet but well-meaning offering of condolences, she left the subject be.

Anarchy though appeared not to share in her fellows' upset and misery, as she leaned over to the Oracle and muttered behind a hand, "Don't mind them... I still know how to hold a proper conversation, haha!"

The ghoul made small talk with the old bird, taking their own precious time as the steely insect continued on with his crutch and splinted leg. Rounding the gabbing girls went the perspiring, poisonous frog to catch up with the lead, and they both exchanged wordless, ornery glances as they weaved through the crowd of natives on the promenade toward Fayn's Retreat.
 
Last edited:

Turnip

Magnificent Turnip
693
Posts
11
Years
3/7/1076
Starts Off Outside And Then Things Get Steadily Smellier


"... And then the entire ship exploded from the sheer impact of the thing! I tell you, I'd never thought Shuckles to be the most offensively apt of 'mon, but given multiple turns of incredibly convoluted setup-" in the midst of an energetic bout of storytelling, Cook was interrupted by a merry Jon.

"Cook, my cook!" Jon said heartily the moment he saw the Hydreigon in the food market that he needed to pass through to reach the Captain's Ire. He reached an arm up to wave. "Ahoy!"

"Jon, my Jon!" the jolly chef responded in kind, pausing for a moment afterwards to ponder whether that sentence had sounded correct. The dragon dismissed it, apologising to the merchant he had been regaling and taking his leave to approach the Captain.

"Ahoy, my good lad!" Cook said. "I was just inspecting the market - and what a wonderful place it is! I'll surely have to revisit soon to replenish the kitchen stock. What might bring you here, oh Captain, my Captain?"

"I'm going to the tavern," Jon said. "C'mon over with me for a drink! Getting food can wait."

"A spot of jovial taverning?" Cook questioned with one eyebrow raised. "It has certainly been a little while. Lovely social activity..."

Captain Jon cackled loudly, earning the stares of nearby village folk. "Been to Captain's Ire. Lovely and jovial, it was anything but! Still, I had a good time."

They walked - Cook floated - in into the cave that was known as Fayn's Retreat, leaving the bright, harsh daylight behind them. As Jon's eyes adjusted, he noticed something that hadn't come to his attention the day before: the canals of the cave, where seawater flowed through freely, were shining as Chinchous surfed on them. Jon stood at the edge to watch them for a couple of seconds, before he turned to the Hydreigon to say, "Hey Cook, how're you finding the crew so far? They're the best, yeah? All handpicked!"

"The cream of the crop, surely; yet to bring me anything but delight! You surely must have exceptional taste, though I don't mean to toot my own horn by saying so," the dragon chuckled, as Xavier snaked his way across a rocky outcropping to stare hungrily at the aquatic life below.

The usual fuss coming from the Captain's Ire echoed from further into the cavern, and they moved towards it. "You met with Nick yet?"

"Ah yes, the young master Nicholas," Cook nodded. "Nice lad. Good 'mon."

"We've known each other for ages. His family - a family of woodworkers - made the ship we're ridin' on today. I remember when we were children, just Chimchar and Scraggy, we used to play pirates while the ship was being made." He let a great smile of fulfillment light up his face. "Funny how it worked out, eh? We're adults now, and proper pirates!"

The Hydreigon rumbled with mirth, "Indeed, some might call it destiny. I'm sorry to say that I'm not so sure how keen the good lad is on the whole 'proper pirates' business, however... though, of course, I mean that in the best possible way!"

"Aw, give 'im some time. I'm sure he'll come around. No other way for him to go about it, fact, 'cause after we get that score, I bet the gold will sweeten him right into our brand of piracy. Ha!" He let out, drawing the curious stares of some Swannas that were standing under the doorstep of a cave.

"Ahaa, well, I certainly hope his anxieties can be assuaged. Knowing him as you do, I've total confidence in your ability to do so. Merry times ahead, to be sure."

They'd come upon the squalid neighborhood of the Captain's Ire, and Jon knew that as he was stepping into thick mud.

There was no stopping the folk inside the tavern; they were determined to smash it, no matter what. Jon thought he saw the same Poliwhirl who was thrashing the bar with a mug now knee a Magmar in the face. The Monferno had to duck to avoid a Razor Leaf, and hoped the Hydreigon did the same.

"Woo," he exclaimed, "These peeps just don't pipe down, do they? You ever been, Cook?"

"Haha, can't say I- Francis!" Cook had to pause to berate his left hand, who was flailing about in an attempt to swallow whole the Razor Leaf attack he had trapped in his jaws. "What have I told you about eating things? That likely belonged to someone here! Someone... somewhere..." The centre head glanced about, but the chaos was so dense that finding the source of the attack would be difficult even if whoever had launched it cared about where it ended up. "Hmm... I suppose we should just hope they don't want it back."

Finding themselves clear of the sea of writhing patrons at the fringes of the bar, the duo were greeted to the sight of tables of a considerably more inviting manner.

"I'll have your beer," Jon shouted at the approaching Lopunny waitress, who recognized him and smiled at him. She lost her smile when she saw the Hydreigon, though, who could pass as a rather imposing figure. "This is my friend Cook, sweetheart," the Monferno told her, "Don't worry! He doesn't bite... with the head, I think."

"Oh, heavens no!" The dragon chortled, before sending a meaningful glower the way of the heads either side of him. "I'm naught but a placid patron of this lovely establishment. I'll have the same as my good friend here, if you'd be so kind."

The Lopunny seemed shy with her eyes cast down. She only let a small smile show before she left. The tables at the center of the tavern were empty at this hour of the day, so the place wasn't that busy; she came weaving through the tables with the drinks at a lightning pace after half a minute.

"Thanks," Jon said without sparing her a look, grabbed his mug and downed half of it in one go. It was warm, exactly how he did not want it, but it was a drink all the same.

"Cheers!" Said the Hydreigon, whose grin faltered for only the slightest moment as he took a sip of the beverage. Even for tastes such as his, the mediocrity shone through. He passed the mug to Xavier, who seemed much happier to lap up the liquid without a second thought.

As Captain Jon took his second hit from the mug, which emptied it completely, someone unexpected showed up at their table. The Osenian Meowth, with a darker fur than the regular Meowth's fur, seemed to Jon shady like the night before, and never up to any good. He'd come as soon as he'd seen them.

"Oy, oy..." Mappie the bartender said with a low, suave voice and a toothy smile to go with it. "Look who it is, Captain Jon and..." his cat's eyes fell onto the Hydreigon. "Cook, as I hear."

"Ahoy, friend!" The dragon greeted with a twinkling smile. "Cook is the name indeed - goodness me, news travels quickly around here. How delightfully charming that the locals care so about new arrivals in town."

The Meowth's grin widened, making his razor-sharp teeth even more visible. He seemed to have taken a particular interest in Cook, as he wouldn't take his eyes off of him. "But of course we do!" He chortled, "Making friends is how we get by. The drinks are on the house, friendos..."

"Awesome," Jon shouted. "You're a friend now, alright."

"That's good," Mappie said, evidently pleased. "Now that we're all friends, you wouldn't mind meeting my boss, would ya? He's taken notice of your coming to port..."

Jon was leaning back on his chair with his feet up on the table, looking rather indifferent. "He got work for the Blue Bands?" he asked, somewhat uninterested.

The Meowth grabbed his chin and glanced at the ceiling in thought. "Ssssomething like that... I told you before, Furious Jonathan, my boss makes good deals."

"Good deals for him?" Jon asked smartly. "Flint's curse on it, who's your boss?"

Mappie paused, closing his lips in a reserved smile. "The walls have ears, Furious Jon, and I would rather not part with that piece of information unless the answer to the question, 'would you like to do business?' is yes..."

Jon scratched his pudgy nose and exhaled. He had almost forgotten he'd come to Captain's Ire to find Admiral Charles Gallagher, and now that he remembered it, he thought it best to not pass up an opportunity to do business with the locals. Mappie was the bartender of the Captain's Ire, after all, so whoever was the boss of this pirate-infested tavern must've had a considerable amount of influence in the Novayas. "A'ight," Jon said with a half-smile, slowly, as if savoring every word, "We'll do business, Meowth."

The bartender answered with a small bow. "Follow me, friendos..."

The Meowth led them to the fringes of the tavern, and they had to duck to avoid projectiles and push their way through the brawl to reach the wall. At the back of the tavern, there was the stairs that led to the cellar; a Rhyperior seemed to be standing guard there, blocking the entire way. His eyes scanned the Monferno and the Hydreigon, and when he saw Mappie, he stepped aside to let them pass.

Down in the murky, musty cellar were gigantic barrels where the tavern's drinks were stored. It smelled so sourly that even Jon, who was relatively immune to pervasive, foul smells, pursed his nose.

"Smelly!" Burbled Francis, who was quickly shushed by Cook.

Mappie led them to the back of the cellar, where the wall had been broken by Dig, forming a cave. It was hard for Jon to breathe down there.

"So, who's your boss, man?" Jon asked, and his voice echoed heavily in the tunnel's walls. He could see light finding its way in from the place where they were headed, and the Monferno, judging from its gentle warmth that he loved so dearly, felt that it came from the sun.

"You'll know when you see him..." Mappie said, just as they reached the other end of the tunnel.

Jon stepped into the light and was immediately stunned by what he saw; the light was indeed sunlight that fell into the cave from the open ceiling. They had come upon a small, secret underground cove in which the island's green jungle had seeped - palm trees, grass and weeds on the coast, and... a huge shipwreck beached on the mud. The last thing he had expected to see after exiting the back-tunnel of a tavern.


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The Dragon's Hammer

"You see that ship over there?" The Meowth asked smugly.

Jon was too awed by the sight to respond. The wreck had to be at least a hundred years old, and it was a mighty ship, one of the larger of the older generation of shipcraft, of the sort that had a mast with no blimps and could not fly at all.

"The Silver Arrowhead," Mappie said, almost proudly. "Like Captain's Ire, it belonged to Fayn himself, the first pirate leader of the island. This was the cove where he used to hide from the marines... until he and his crew were caught. And without crew to man it, well... ya see what happens. Tide did the poor arrowhead in. But no matter, 'cause my boss likes it there."

There were boats in the cove, but they didn't have to use them, as the waters had backed off sufficiently for them to walk - and float - on the edges of the cave, around the cove.

When they were near enough the wreck, Jon could make out a gruff voice, coming from deep within a throat, painted with a pitch of woe and drama and echoing in the cavern. Someone was reciting an epic tale.

"OH! Wenches! The end be near. Tis beautiful, Louis. A bright light, at the end of me dark tunnel! Wenches, as far as the eye can see, each with a pint of grog and a smile for ol' Flint! Fare thee well, cruel world. Fare thee well."

Then they heard girls cheering. Jon knew that tale well, though it wasn't something he would occasionally hear in Modistra. The people in Modistra avoided telling it for fear of Adrian's hurt feelings, as it told of the demise of Pirate King Flint.

"Boss, sorry to interrupt your storytellin'," Mappie shouted from outside as they approached, "You've got visitors!"

When they entered the hole on the side of the wreck, the first thing they saw was a Feraligatr sitting on a velvet couch, a leg up on a treasure chest and holding two Flaafys in his arms.

That Feraligatr was immediately eye-catching. The way he opened his arms wide to hug the girls revealed a battle-scarred chest; Jon glimpsed one of the Flaaffys touching his scars, and the other one looking up to the Feraligatr's tough, jolly face in admiration, both the orbs on their tails lighting up with excitement. They were really pretty, Jon noticed, handpicked girls who decorated the brushed wool on their heads with flowers and hearts.

The larger mon was wearing a gold-laced brown tricorne hat that pirates liked to wear, only his had numerous colorful feathers at the top - mainly orange and green. And the feature that struck Jon the most was the marine's coat that the Feraligatr was wearing, tied around the waist with a red sash. It wasn't just any marine's coat, but an admirals. That gave Jon pause, because he wasn't about to make deals with a filthy marine, but then it struck him: that Feraligatr was Admiral Charles Gallagher, the Dragon's Hammer, Public Enemy #3, one of the greatest pirate lords to ever live and plague the seas and skies.

Spoiler:

The Gallagher Pirates, as his crew was named, were afraid of him. Adrian said that once, when he turned pirate from marine, he tried to make his crew love him, and he failed. So he made them all fear him instead.

Charles set upon this task by brutally shutting down a segment of his crew that was talking about mutinying, as they had been offered a pardon from the Eternal Stars that governed all. He put up loyal members of his crew to spy on them, by pretending to join in the hatred for Admiral Charles. He attacked the mutineers on their sleep, beat up every one of them himself, tied them up and left them for the Wingulls to pick apart on Compass Cay, some rock off of the Novayas. Nobody ever thought of mutinying aganst him ever since.

"Yooo," Jon shouted cheerfully, walking into the mud-filled hold of the Silver Arrowhead. "I've been lookin' for ya, mister. Heard you were on the island."

Admiral Charles looked like he was grinning, but maybe that's how his mouth twisted. He sent the girls off with a wave of his hand, and Mappie knew to retreat as well, without a word. Jon knew the feeling that hung over the air; it was the feeling that settled in an area once major pirate captains sat down to do business - he'd seen it in Adrian's court, in Louis's Spot.

The Feraligatr's orange eyes fell upon the Hydreigon. "Furious Jonathan," he said, "And who'd your friend be?"

"The name's Cook, my good sir," the Hydreigon greeted with a lift of his hat. "And might I say this is quite the scenic location!"

"Agreed," the Feraligatr said, "And Fayn's to thank for that. Twas dumb luck he found this place, and dumb luck that got his crew caught and left his vessel out here. For me to make mine."

Jon took a seat on a fallen chair's back without being offered, and that drew the admiral's attention. "I didn't offer you a seat, boy," he barked. That commanding tone reminded Jon of the ANF. Perhaps the Admiral could never really shed it even after sliding into the world of piracy.

The Monferno looked up at him innocently. "I don't like standing up while doing business," he said in the simplest way possible.

"Now now, manners," Cook warned - though he spoke at Jonathan, the dragon also cast a fleeting glance at the Feraligatr who probably should have sat them already. The Admiral, who obviously didn't care much for manners, ignored the Hydreigon and looked at Jon intensely, a vein popping above his eye.

He pointed at him with a claw and said, "You've some nerve."

"What kinda pirate would I be if I hadn't?" Jon asked ardently.

Charles twisted his mouth, sucking on his teeth loudly. His eyes were half-shut as he sized up the Monferno. "Little brat," he said gruffly.

"You got somethin' else to say?" Jon said, beginning to get angry. The tension in the dusty hold of the Arrowhead was palpable. Jon didn't imagine he would pick a fight with the Admiral when he heard he was in town, but before he met him he had no idea that he wouldn't like him one bit.

The Feraligatr remained silent for a few moments. Then, he slowly said, "Tell Adrian if you see him again I send me regards."

Jon wasn't one to think like that, but the only reason one of the Big Five would back off was because Jon was in league with Adrian, so that civil war could be avoided. Admiral Charles, in all his bestiality, was at least that much shrewd.

"I will," the Monferno said, his tone having softened. Having seen that tension had been dissolved, the Feraligatr picked a flask from the couch, stuck it between his upper and lower teeth and emptied the dark liquid - a liquid too black to be regular drink - in his mouth. And after he was done swallowing, he used his snaky tongue to lick all around his mouth. The rush of the drink seemed to have hit him hard. Jon was impressed, though he didn't show it. If that was grog mixed with gunpowder, any lesser 'mon would be dead from the impact. The Feraligatr's orange eyes became glossy with tears, but whatever effect the drink had on him, he seemed used to it.

"Me crew tells me he and Amaddy body slammed each other," he grunted, then let out something between a laugh and a cough. "Geh."

He was starting to get merry. Jon wished he had something to drink as well, but the Admiral wouldn't do them the favor. "Amadeus is dead," Jon said with certainty. "Adrian drowned him."

"Tosh!" Charles said, "Can't speak ill of Adrian's strength, but Amaddy can't be dead. The fuckers at Modistra, oh they're storytellers. Us pirates can't help tellin' a little story, can we? Do you concur, Captain Jon? Gahaha," he paused to cough, "-hahaha!"

He'd already forgotten the beef, and so had Jon, who smiled, regardless of what was being said.

"Cook," the Feraligatr suddenly grunted, turning to the Hydreigon. "Now that I cast me eyes on you again, your faces look familiar. Have I seen you before?"

"I wouldn't be surprised; I've had my fair share of travels," the dragon pondered, a hand at his chin. "Though I can't say I've had the pleasure of meeting your acquaintance before today."

The Admiral sized him up in the same way he did Jon. "And what'd you do for Furious Jonathan? You Cook? Gahaha," his loud, abrasive laughter prompted him to open his strong jaws and throw his snout upwards.

Cook was silent for a while as he waited for the Feraligatr to finish laughing, before piping up with an exuberant: "Yes!"

Charles paused, raising his eyebrows in a comical expression worthy of an actor's. "Gods, that's rich. A Hydreigon, for a cook?" He looked at Jon, who shrugged. The cook in question just seemed a little confused. "We Gallagher Pirates put 'mon like him in the front lines," Charles said, shaking his head. "Wasted potential."

"Indeed, so many 'mon have their potential wasted on the front lines, nowadays," the Hydreigon said with a sigh. "A true shame. But then, I wonder: if you realise such, why would you put-? Ahhh... never mind, then. Forget I said anything."

The Feraligatr didn't seem to understand what Cook was saying, but it looked like he'd had enough of this talk. He averted his gaze to look at the Monferno, and he leaned back on the couch, hugging its back with one arm. The way the light fell from the broken deck, only his snout was illuminated; the rest of his head was in the dark. "You and your crew's got your eyes on a score, Jonathan," he said, "We know what you're after."

"You don't," Jon said with certainty, but it got his blood pumping all the same.

"Aye, we do. We're after the same thing, ya see," he said merrily. "There was a map in the governor's fort in Modistra. The map's disappeared after you took a score from there, and kidnapped the man. Me wits are still in me head, Jonathan."

"Even so," Jon said, remaining relaxed, hunched and with his fingers joined together in front of him. "It's none of your business."

"You're in the Novayas, boy," the Feraligatr said in a sinister manner, "Everything that happens here is me business. Matter of fact, we were the ones to fool the Trade Prince into movin' so much treasure to his mansion right here in our lair. So we could steal it. You understand, Furious Jonathan? That score belongs to me from the very start."

As Jon leaned forward, he looked up in the dark where Charles's face was hidden. The beam of light that fell from the cracked deck was blinding. He was tempted to point out that pirates took things that didn't belong to them, but he knew that affairs were dictated differently within the Pirate Alliance. The Code of Conduct bound pirates from messing with the business of other pirates, and breaking the code could be a deadly offense that warranted excommunication - that is, if the victim had influence in the alliance. "You've no proof," Jon resorted to saying.

"Tsk," the Admiral let out brazenly. He opened a second flask and took a sip - a smaller one this time. "Me word is proof enough, brat."

"Oh, not back to this again," Cook lamented. "I should think you not to be so intimidated by a fledgling crew, Mr. Gallagher."

The Admiral seemed to consider his next words for a few moments. His head bowed slightly towards the light, so Jon could see a darkened face. "We're not competing, for me to be intimidated," he said gruffly. "We'll make business." He raised both arms in a wide gesture, showing the hold of the arrowhead. "That's what we here for." He looked directly at Jon. "You may have the map, Jonathan, but you don't have what it takes to take Apolucia's score, even if you had the ship and crew of Grandstar 5, and I'll tell you why." Grandstar 5 was the iron warship under the command of Supreme Admiral Azimuth Kurt, built by the ANF as an ultimate weapon of destruction. "Taking down Apolucia ain't as easy task as you think. The Trade Prince is clever. He's made his ship travel with company... ANF company. I know you thought upgrading your ship here in me port would do you good, but their firepower is out've this world. Go in there alone, and you'll be dust in the wind. We'll be pickin' your pieces off the ocean, if we can find any."

That was something Jon didn't consider. He thought the Admiral would be lying to scare him off the prize, but now the whole thing was making more sense. Why would a galley with so much treasure go unguarded? It seemed too easy.

The Monferno covered his mouth with his hand for a bit. Squatting with his feet up on the chair, greatly hunched forward, he looked askance at his friend. "Cook, what'd you make of all this?"

The Hydreigon sniffed, "Well, it's certainly a pleasant change in direction." He paused for just a moment to pull away Xavier, who was about to begin chewing on the backrest of a nearby chair. "I suppose it depends on the details of this 'business', but co-operation of any kind is surely much more comfortable a venture." In spite of his words, the dragon did not appear much more comfortable.

Jon initially wanted to be fearless about it, but perhaps that was the foolhardy approach, as he truly had no idea what kind of escort Apolucia commanded. It could mean the end of his crew. But Cook convinced him - cooperation was much safer.

Still, he didn't trust the Admiral one bit. Even if he sealed a deal here, he had to think of alternatives before they even executed the plan. "We can come to a deal," the Monferno said to the Feraligatr. "I got the map, and you got the firepower. Then I'll give you thirty percent of our score." Jon intentionally made the first percentage offer low, as was customary in such negotiations. He knew he wasn't getting any better than fifty.

The Feraligatr snorted. "Fifty percent."

"Deal." The Monferno got out of his chair and reached for the Admiral's hand. The Admiral had leaned back in the dark again, so it was impossible to see his expression. As the Feraligatr extended his right arm to seal the deal with a handshake, Jon noticed a ring on it. It was the Dragon Guardian's Ring, the Artifact the Feraligatr possessed, which granted him the Dragon Hammer move, a move with such dreadful power that it could smash through the deck of an airship just like the woodcutter's axe could split a plank in two.

The two pirates tried to pulverize each other's hands in the handshake. The Feraligatr's hand was larger, but he realized with surprise that Jon could match his strength...

"Pleasure doin' business with ye," the Feraligatr said hoarsely, and his grin was evident in his tone.
 
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Jauntier

Where was your antennas again?
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3/7/1076

Straits and Inebriates


A Breloom crashed into a rotted wooden table, spraying splinters as he broke it clear down the center. Letting out a terrible groan over the din, he tried to stand himself back up, but writhed in pain. When he managed to focus his eyes, he called out to a nearby looming figure in the midst of the chaos:

"Aw, aw you! Get me up, won't ye? Damn well did me in with a stray swish of a tail, some random bastard...!"

When the figure turned their head, the side of their face caught the light of a torch on the wall. The leering eyes of a Scizor met his as the Bug spat, "What do I look like to you, you busted bloke? My leg's shot! Your back's broke! Think I'll break mine?! You should've had your lights out, I bet you talk more sense when your gob's shut, oh shi?"

The Scizor ducked out of the way of a stray mug as it smashed into the wall behind his head. A giggle rose up behind him, and he turned to see a twirling Banette, gripping the hem of her dress as she danced over broken furniture and busted sundries. She sang, "Oh, Vincent! You can't even get a out a snappy quip!" Just as Anarchy finished tutting, she bent backwards, avoiding a couple chucked boulders that seemed to fly out of nowhere from the thrashing crowd.

Vincent grunted, incredibly annoyed as he tried to quickly shuffle along on his crutches. He shouted so she could hear: "Sticking to the wall and we're still getting pelted, Anarchy! What a godawful place! The hell kind of admiral would be here? And we took orders from him?" He was met with a firm pat on the back, where he looked over to see a hunched Passimian, guarding his own capped and bandaged head with his free hand as best he could.

The Passimian smiled as he darted his eyes about on high alert, saying thickly, "Numayah-o! This is a pi-rate's plaaace, my brotha! Takes me waaay, back! Ah? We are in good com-pa-ny, yah?" Emmanuel laughed heartily as he side-stepped the stray blades of a Razor Leaf attack. He still carried on merrily as he scratched at his cheek, the attack having shaved some hairs clean off it. Vincent was about to give the Passimian another quip of his own, but something warm and fuzzy brushed up against his leg.

"Sweet Arceus!" he swore.

"Sterling, please," came the dry retort. Vincent narrowed his eyes at the mention of his surname, knowing only his Persian captain would dare. Captain Barbosa, despite his haggard appearance from thirst and little rest, still managed to be nimble enough, darting around feet and hazards. Although, it was still a great effort, and the strain showed as he panted out his words. "This churlish setting does not reflect on the Admiral. Let us just get a proper lead, plea?"

Barbosa screeched as he splayed his body on the cave floor, eyes shut as shards of glass rained over him. When he opened them, he saw the backs of a weapon-wielding Banette and a battle-stanced Toxicroak, the narrow blade and a poison-dipped arm crossed as a block. The Banette turned to face her partner, revealing her missing eye?and the absence of an impaling nail?as she chirped, "Enzo, you're quick on the draw!" Enzo let out a throaty croak as he glanced back to Barbosa, who shook his head grimly as he went on.

Anarchy shouted back to the crowd as she deftly darted out of the way of a tumbling Ursaring: "Hey, Miss Feathersby! If you can hear me, we're almost at the bar!"

Though the Xatu had made it inside the bar along with the rest, her progress across the room was more sluggish. She held both wings in front of her, a Light Screen in front of her left, and a Reflect in front of her right. Balls of energy fizzled as they collided with the first, thrown bottles shattered when they pelted the second. The bird pushed her way through the crowd slowly with her twin shields, splitting them to either side only for the brawlers to close back up behind her. "I'm on?" A splintering chair drowned her out. "I'm on my way!" she repeated.

After what felt like an eternity in the middle of an all-out brawl, brown leather boots planted themselves on the wooden counter of the bar. The needlepoint end of a massive ship nail pierced the grain, and the one-eyed Banette proudly leaned against it, cackling triumphantly as she dusted sawdust and glass shards from her white dress. Her eye bore down at an ashen-furred Meowth behind the counter, but before she addressed him, the feeble sound of two paws slapping down beside her stole her attention.

"Captain!" she cheered, delighted to see the heaving, ragged Persian had enough strength to haul himself up onto a stool. The tattered and glass-pierced brim of his tricorn hat cast black shade over his eyes, but his coarse tone was clear.

"Tender," he began. He licked his dry chops before peeling his lips back in a grimace, finding splinters amidst his whiskers. But he continued, "Tender, please.... Is the respected Admiral Charles Gallagher... in this establishment?"

The dark Meowth bartender was using his filthy rag to 'clean' the earthenware, when he heard the Persian asking a question. He barely heard him through the fuss, but turned around, and took a quick look at the small company that had ended up in the god forsaken tavern, before going back to smudging the glasses even further with an expression of disinterest. "Might be. What're you lookin' him for, fellas?"

Anarchy chimed in. "We may not look it, but fancy ourselves like dignitaries! We're a whole crew, in fact, see?" Pointing over her shoulder, back on the very edge of the fray, a Passimian and Toxicroak were tugging at the claws of a Scizor, who was mouthing profanities as his legs were caught under a tumbled Swampert. "They're just a little tied up at the moment! Boy, the locals here sure are rough!"

Barbosa rapped his paw on the counter so attention returned to him. He had started to catch his breath. "I am Captain Fillmore Barbosa under the merchant group... Wayfare & Company. The group was specifically contracted by Admiral Gallagher himself... to aid him with fleet business. My crew was specifically tasked... to deliver some choice cargo. Please. It is urgent we speak to him."

"Ooh, Wayfare & Co, aye," Mappie said, "I know ye. Hate to break it to ya fellas, but you'll hafta wait for a bit. 'Fraid the Admiral is busy at the moment."

The Persian flashed his claws for a second, in irritation or anxiousness, but they withdrew along with his demeanor. He sat there with a sigh. "Very well. How much longer?" Mappie shrugged wearily.

Anarchy sat herself down on the bar, legs dangling over the edge as she faced all the shelved bottles and kegs behind the Meowth. She pursed her zippered grin. "And what about refreshments?"

Psychic barriers shattered into nothingness as the Xatu made her final push through the crowd, half-falling against the front of the bar. "Do you at least have somewhere more sheltered to use as a waiting room?" she asked, her voice haggard. "Your patrons do not have impeccable aim."

"Thank fuck they don't," Mappie said smartly. He was about to tend to their requests, but then the Captain's Ire went quiet within the span of five seconds. The fighting had ceased, for the first time in weeks, perhaps; the patrons had frozen in their places, all heads turned to the door. Mappie intuitively knew what was happening, as he'd seen it countless times before, so he didn't even look up from his dedicated filthying of the tankards.

A Drilbur with an eye-patch was standing in the doorframe, fairly leaner than others of his species, and more 'mon, bigger than him, were waiting behind him in line to enter. The Drilbur gave a quick glance around.

"... hic," the ground-type let out.

"Nasty Joe," Mappie said with a smile.

"AHOY!" The Drilbur screamed, walking in. An entire posse followed right after him. A Rhyperior who looked much like the one that guarded the entrance to the cellar, a Camerupt, a Zebstrika and more Pokemon, all tough and weathered, poured inside the Captain's Ire, filling the tavern to the point where no proper fighting could take place.

"Charles, where he?" The Drilbur drunkenly said. "We've ta see him. Pronto."

Mappie was about to ask why, but thought better of it. "You know where he is. You don't need my permission, mate, go ahead."

"Oh, but wait a minute!" Anarchy jumped up to her feet, sorely indignant. She clutched at her nail, still driven into the bar top. Barbosa turned around to see an approaching Enzo and Emmanuel, hoisting a limping Vincent. Anarchy stamped her foot. "What gives those big, brawny 'mon the go-ahead over us? And we asked so nicely!"

"Anne..." Barbosa warned under his breath, but Vincent cut in.

"What's that? Did someone do us some kind of injustice, Anarchy?" The Scizor made it a point to be heard, his expression twisted from an exasperated daring, and the pain of his leg and shattered splint. "I got my steely red arse laid out flat and we can't even get a sideways glance from the blue lizard, but those blokes can? Who the hell's in charge of this rank crack in the wall?"

"Sterling..." The Persian began to flex his claws, digging them into the wood.

"Fellas," the Meowth left the tankard and the rag and raised both arms, trying to defuse the situation.

Nasty Joe cut him off. "We're the Gallagher Pirates, scally-hic, scallywag." He walked over to the Scizor with a brazen step, and some folk in the tavern let out cries and began to evacuate. But it would come to nothing, as Nasty Joe noticed the ragged Persian on the counter. "Waaaait just a minute," he croaked, "I know you. Cap'n Barbosa, one and the same?"

They hadn't really met in person, as the Admiral preferred to keep his rugged crew away from merchants like him, lest they scare them off any deals. "Gods," the Zebstrika from Gallagher's crew said, "What happened to ye lot?"

There was a twinkle of awe in Anarchy's eye as the rest of her crew fell silent for their captain.

"Yes," said the Persian, as he slipped off his stool to face his inquirers. He looked like he could barely stand, but he tried his best to sound level. "I am he."

He sat down on the floor, looking up at his audience with wet, tired eyes. "We had to deliver some cargo on behalf of the Admiral... But along our route, we were struck by a sudden act of Providence. It was so wrathful, it sank our ship in minutes. We lost some brave members of our crew out to sea... but it was only by grace that the rest of us washed up on the same coast, somewhere out there... We did what we could to get back to proper civilization. Built a raft, endured the sea's penchant for calm and cruelty, fell short of food and drinking water... and the tides carried us here, to Kuai. We lost so much... I feel like I've lost everything... I've failed the Admiral. I failed him, and I've to tell him. It's my duty...."

He felt a soft, plush hand caress his back, but he did not look at Anarchy. He only bowed his head.

The psychic's longest feathers drooped. Though she was thankful for the chaos's cease, it was sad that it had to come with such a heavy-hearted tale.

"Oy fuckin' vey," the Drilbur said, covering his forehead with his claws. It was unclear whether he was being sarcastic or not. The Gallagher Pirates were instantly unsympathetic, judging from the looks they gave Barbosa.

"Hmph," let out the great Camerupt, "What is this? Are you trying to score sympathy points with us? You take us for fools? He's taking us for fools!" Everyone in the crew let a cry in unison. Everyone except Mappie, that is, who was a bit wiser.

The Drilbur drunkenly stepped in front of the Persian, almost falling over, and shouted, "What a fuckin' shitfest!" He was ready to strike, and Anarchy was poised to intercept as the rest of her mates assumed her stance for their captain, but Mappie's voice stopped them.

"Oy, Joe..." The Meowth said, "You don't think you oughta let the cap'n decide what's to become of these poor fellas? They came all the way over here to say sorry, after all... heh. C'mon, let's get 'em to Charles..."

Nasty Joe let out his customary hic. "Up with ye, landlubber. I'll take ye to the Admiral." The Drilbur and the crew walked over to the stairs that led down the cellar; the Rhyperior nodded to his brother that had come with Nasty Joe and stepped out of the way. The Gallagher Pirates waited for Captain Barbosa's company to go down the stairs before they followed them in; Nasty Joe, before he descended, shouted to the patrons, "What're ye all lookin' at, scallywags? Back at it! Captain don't like quiet 'round here, get on wit yer fightin'!"

And Captain's Ire became a battlefield once more.
 
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GastlyGibus

I'm battin' a thousand!
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10
Years
3/7/1076


Even with the sun vanishing below the horizon, the imposing shadow of a docking frigate loomed over the Kuai ports. For a place like Kuai, this would have been business as usual, but the sight of the ship nevertheless elicited looks of surprise, and even some of dread.

This was no ordinary ship.

The large frigate pulled in slowly, adorned with fanciful decorations and sleek wooden finishes. Painted on its side in strict, plain text was the name; Stardust. Some recognized the title alone, but for those who didn't, the swaying flag at the top of the ship gave away it's allegiance. A blue anchor with wings with a white background. This was a Marine frigate.

"Well I'll be..." a Pancham dock worker remarked, looking up at the vessel as it pulled in to land. "Marines? Here?"

"Anchor's down!" a Squirtle called from the deck of the ship, looking down briefly at the dock below before turning to the crew behind him. "Air Marshal Victor, we've arrived at Kuai, as ordered!"

The Air Marshal stood at the center of the deck, a Frogadier dressed in a thin, sleeveless, Marine-decorated vest. Wrapped around his waist was a large belt with two holsters resting over his thighs, each with a small pistol held neatly in place. With a knowing nod, the Frogadier casually stepped towards the docking plank, gesturing for some of his crew to join him. "About time," he said wearily. "You three, come with me. The rest of you, stay here and make sure the ship is in shape for departure. We won't be here long."

With that, the three crewmen he beckoned disembarked with their marshal, the rest of his crew following orders and keeping the ship ready. "First things first, I need a drink. Surely pirates would at least know how to make good drink."


***


Mum and dad,

I told you I'd be away for a while, and I know it's been longer than anticipated, but unfortunately, it's going to be a lot longer until I return home. I haven't forgotten about you, and I'll miss you every day, but I've found an opportunity during my absence that I couldn't pass up. The dockworkers need craftsmen and woodworkers in Kuai, and they've offered me a salary that would be fit for supporting both the family and myself. With my experience, they've offered me much more than your standard dockworker. I'll be living in Kuai for a time, but whatever money I make, a portion is being sent back home to you, to help keep you afloat and support you. As much as it pains both of us for me to be gone, I'm doing this for the family, and if things pan out here, I'll return with enough money to give you two the early retirement you deserve.

In this letter I'm enclosing an address you can write to in order to reach me, and rest assured I'll be writing you as often as I can, in addition to the earnings I'll be sending your way. I know it's sudden, and I regret not being able to discuss this with you in person, but I hope you can understand my motives and know that I haven't forgotten you, and I'll be back as soon as I can. We'll be together again, I promise you, but for now, for all of us, I have to leave.

Love and best regards,
Nicholas Darcy.





The bar was quiet this time of night, save for the hushed conversations of the patrons and the music from a small stage in the back. A pair of Sableyes, one purple, one gold, both played on their strings a calm, soothing piece to rest the wearied souls that came for the evening. And at the front of the tavern, at the counter sat Nick, the Scrafty keeping to himself as he leaned his elbows over the bar, a pensive expression etched on his face, mirrored in his posture.

Not gonna work... not gonna work... Nicholas, you're a fuckin' idiot..."

Nick berated himself mentally as he reread the letter over and over in his mind. What a stupid idea... he thought. His family would find out the truth eventually. Sooner or later, they'd find out. He couldn't imagine them being very pleased with his new occupation.

"No... Lucas has it all covered... he said he would, just gotta trust him." Nick mumbled to himself. "Him and Jon. They both know what they're doing... bah." He muttered few more obscenities to himself, taking a swig from his mug before realizing it was empty. With a disgruntled sigh he flagged down the bartender for some more. "Oi, keep 'em coming," he said, just loud enough for the staff to hear him. The Spinda barkeeper hobbled over, looking as if he might fall at any moment, but somehow managed to catch himself each time, seeming to have a certain method in his movements. With a shaky hand he poured Nick another glass of ale, giving him a curt smile and nod.

"Just holler if you need more," the barkeep said quietly. Seemed the rest of the tavern was just as hushed, much to Nick's gratitude. It was late evening, many folks here as a last stop before returning to their home, some to celebrate a good day, and some to drink away the week, only to return to it all over again come morning. Nick was here simply think and to clear his head over what had happened so far. He wasn't an alcoholic, far from it, but even he needed a good, stiff drink every now and again.

As it seemed the night would progress as peacefully as now, the contented patrons seemed to freeze in place, with some peering out the windows, followed by the murmurings and worried ruminations of worried people. Nick took a moment to register the change in tone, and no sooner had he noticed when the front doors swung open; in the center of the doorway stood a Frogadier, wearing the traditional vest of the ANF, alongside three identically clad men behind him. The patrons turned silent, and even the musicians ceased their playing for a moment. The marines were not a common sight in Kuai, least of all in a lowly tavern such as this. Nick glanced at them with disdain, before the Frogadier waved his hand dismissively.

"Keep playing," he said aloud. The two Sableye's in the back silently nodded and resumed their music, and the rest of the patrons quickly returned to their own affairs. If the marshal was simply here for drink, then his presence bore no ill will, at least not for now. The marine marshal took his entourage and found a small circular table, motioning towards the barkeep to bring them a round of drinks.

Nick cast them a wayward glance, but soon turned back to his own drink. He likely wouldn't have any beef with this man, considering he'd only been a pirate for a few weeks now. He doubted he possessed any kind of notoriety among the marines at this stage.

The Frogadier, meanwhile, was busy scanning over the patrons of the tavern. "Commoners..." he thought disdainfully. He looked over his own group, a Kirlia, a Charmeleon, and a Elekid, all with their own ANF jackets. After taking a swig of his drink, Victor recoiled and turned up his nose in disgust. "As disgusting as the city," he mumbled to himself, before turning to his Kirlia companion. "Isaac, go to the church and fetch me Leandius. I wish to speak with him. And hurry up," he commanded. The Kirlia nodded and rose from his seat, slipping through the doors and disappearing into the city. "Less time we spend here the better," Victor said to himself, before pointing to the Elekid. "Fetch the barkeep, see if there's something better to drink here."

The Elekid nodded, obviously the youngest of the group, hopping off his stool and scuffling over to the bar, hopping up to the counter and placing his hands over the edge. "Ey! Got somethin' that doesn't taste like piss?" The Spinda behind the bar ignored his insult, fetching him something different, before the Elekid turned to the Scrafty sitting next to him. "How do you guys drink this crap?"

"Acquired taste," Nick replied, trying to ignore the squeaky voice of the Elekid. "Should know what you want before you order it."

The Elekid brushed him off with a groan, before being handed a bottle of whisky by the barkeep. Firmly grasping the bottle, the Elekid excitedly swung around to return to his table, inadvertently slamming Nick's mug over and spilling his drink over the Scrafty.

"Oi! Watch it, you bloody idiot!" Nick shouted, turning angrily to the Elekid, who only nervously held at the bottle in his hands.

"Hey, now you smell like you look," the Charmeleon marine jeered. Nick cast the group an imposing glare.

"Oh, wise guy, eh?" Nick replied, balling his hands into fists. "You think you're funny?"

"Please, no need to get riled up," the bartender meekly interjected. "I'll get you another drink, no charge..."

"Can hardly blame my associate here," the Frogadier said with another dismissive wave. "When in Kuai, do as the Kuais do. I had thought clumsiness and foolishness was a staple of you commoners. Should be used to it."

Nick stared daggers at the Frogadier now. "Oh, I see. You think that your fancy jacket makes you better than the rest of us, that it?" Nick answered, hopping off his stool and turning to the group. "You marine folks ain't very well-liked around here."

The Frogadier gave a coy smirk. "Yes, commoners seem prone to jealousy when in the presence of their superiors," he retorted. "Our good friend at the bar has offered you a free drink. Go back to your seat, boy, I've much more important things to worry about."

Nick took a step forward, looking intent on wiping that smirk off his slimy face. The instant he did, the Charmeleon hopped off his seat to stand between Nick and Victor, brandishing his claws defensively. "Don't even think about it, lad."

Nick raised a hand to strike, throwing a punch at the Charmeleon and narrowly missing as the marine dodged to the side, swiping at Nick's side with his claws. His own strike only grazed the lizard, and Nick retaliated with another swipe, landing his fist square in the Charmeleon's chest, sending him sprawling back and onto the floor. Just before Nick could continue, the Frogadier suddenly sprang up, producing a pistol from his holster and pointing it straight at Nick.

"Ah ah," Victor said, aiming at the Scrafty's head. His gun looked heavily modified, with two valves connected from the barrel to a bulbous metal chamber at the back. "Let's not start a fight, shall we? Civilian casualties cause a mess of paperwork."

The bar fell still, Nick grumbling to himself as the Kirlia from earlier returned to the bar.

"Marshal, the... oh," the Kirlia began, seeing Victor holding a pistol to the Scrafty, his Charmeleon companion shakily rising to his feet from the floor. "Er, Leandius is not at the church at present, sir. We'll have to wait another day."

"Hmph," Victor said, glancing around at the bar, seeing several frightened patrons, the Sableye musicians now hiding behind their instruments. He gave a huff of breath before holstering his weapon, throwing a few coins on the table and heading to the door, motioning for the others to follow him. "We were just leaving, anyways," he said. The Charmeleon gave an angry glare at Nick, drawing an invisible line over his neck before following out with Victor, the Elekid hastily scurrying behind them.

Nick rubbed at his side, glaring at the group as they left. Soon enough, the patrons of the tavern returned to their drinks, paying no mind to the scene anymore, and the musicians strung up another piece. Nick decided it'd be best to return to the ship, leaving a few coins on the counter. "Sorry 'bout that."

"Quite alright," the barkeep said with a smile. "Wouldn't be my first bar fight," he added with a chuckle. "Stay out of trouble."

Nick shrugged, turning to the doors and pushing them open before returning to the cold air outside, heading back to the docks.

 
Last edited:

Jauntier

Where was your antennas again?
690
Posts
8
Years
  • Age 33
  • USA
  • Seen Apr 6, 2018
3/7/1076

Down With His Crew

The seasoned pirates waited for the Drilbur to go in the front; he seemed to command great influence upon them. He was, in fact, the First Mate, a vital part of Charles's crew and a veteran of many battles at the side of his captain, back when they were both marines.

The story of the treacherous Admiral Charles and Nasty Joe was infamous, both in marine and pirate circles.

It was said that, when the Admiral faced resistance from his noble marine crew the moment he announced his desertion of the winged anchor of the ANF, he made Joe pretend that he was a fervent mutineer, to infiltrate the group of 'mon that were planning to slay the Admiral in protest. The Drilbur had slipped bottled sleep powder into their drinks to make them hazy, and when he whispered to Charles's ear that it was done, the Admiral was set upon them and punished them with such fury that no one ever questioned him again... and all thanks to Joe, who was afterwards known as Nasty Joe and became his First Mate, and had remained with him even after the original marines that were in the crew had died off and been replaced with actual pirates.

"I've ta warn ye," Nasty Joe said to the crew of merchants, his voice echoing inside the tunnel, "You've ta break the news... hic! Delicately," the Drilbur said, choosing a surprisingly eloquent word for someone such as him.

"Aye," some from the Gallagher Pirates echoed the First Mate.

"Mighta save your skin. Hic!"

After nearly being forced into a total, utter brawl against the legion of pirates they were doomed to lose, Anarchy glanced around Gallagher's crew warily. She was not alone, as Enzo's signature disgruntled croak rang low in his throat behind her. Vincent's scowl was etched into the steely chitin on his face as well, though beside him, Emmanuel kept his eyes wide and his lips shut tight. As the four of them walked, they kept a defensive formation around Barbosa, who kept his head low and his eyes obscured under his brim. All the Persian had to say was, "Thank you."

Three minutes later, they were in the cave's clearing, walking on the sand towards the wrecked Silver Arrowhead. The Gallagher Pirates all walked with aplomb and certainty. In the light, their tattoos were all apparent - every member had at least one. It must've been a trend in the crew.

They glimpsed a monkey head peeking from inside the hole in the ship's hold, and then they heard the Admiral's loud voice. "Nasty Joe," he shouted, possibly recognizing him by his step. But there were more footsteps, a stampede of them. "Ho! And me crew?" he said, once the others came at the brim of the Admiral's cave. "What the fuck y'all doing here? Weren't you out getting pissed on at the beer place? Don't let me hear anybody moan about the lack of time ye all had to relax when next we set sail, or you're off board, overboard."

"Oy, Cap'n, HIC," the Drilbur stepped into the sandy cave and tripped over a stray wooden log. "Ay," he let out, dazed, and a brawny Samurott from the crew helped him up. The Samurott also responded to the captain's question.

"We were out havin' our fun, captain, but there's some unforeseen events come up..."

"Marines at our port," Nasty Joe croaked.

"Marines? Who?" The Feraligatr didn't even deign to look surprised, or worried, or anything of the sort.

"It's a frigate called Stardust, cap'n, she just docked to port," someone from the back shouted. "So we thought to come 'ere."

"Ye thought?" the Admiral said in a low tone, threateningly. "Ye thought. Ye?" The Gallagher Pirates didn't seem to know what they did wrong. The Feraligatr shook his head, blowing through his nostrils. "It's the Air Marshal Victor," he said, "Ye bunch of swabs. We eat Victor and his likes alive. Y'all should've stayed put exactly there an' make a show of might. One of ye was enough to break me the news. Gods," he said, exasperatedly, "I captain a crew of idiots. Shit-for-brains, all of ye."

"In truth, cap'n, it's more dire," Nasty Joe said, but he never seemed to get the chance to explain.

While the two former marines spoke, a green-feathered bird slipped away from her place among the Persian's crew, and fell into place beside the Monferno instead. The Hydreigon's worried expression lifted momentarily as he gave the Xatu a quaint wave.

Jon looked up at the bird. "Oy!" he whispered, "Bird! What're you doing here?"

She kept her eyes on the Feraligatr, but seemed to smile at the both of them. "I got swept up in the pirate lifestyle, it seems."

Jon was about to say something, but then the Admiral noticed Captain Barbosa and his ilk, and he said in his usual, loud voice, "Yer not of me crew," the Feraligatr said, but he was beginning to realize who he was.

"Cap'n Barbosa's here fer a meeting," the tough-looking Samurott clarified.

As the Samurott and Drilbur stepped aside, the five of the Wayfare guild presented themselves, though the crew fell back in line behind their captain. Barbosa toed past the onlooking Monferno and Hydreigon, wordlessly.

Standing alone before Gallagher himself, Barbosa gave the Admiral a nod before he cleared his throat.

"To the revered Admiral Charles Gallagher, I, Captain Fillmore Barbosa, of the Wayfare & Company merchant guild headquartered in Liverte?the aforementioned you've contracted?was not able to deliver your specially requested cargo from Nautactus to Kuai. In fact, all of the cargo was lost at sea?as was half my crew."

Anarchy listened as Barbosa recounted the tale of how the merchant ship, halfway on its voyage from the bustling pirate haven Nautactus to Kuai in the Novayas, was struck by an ungodly terror of a storm, and how they washed up likely on the southern tip of the continent of Antara. They were taken in by half-wild locals, who called their land Hera. The local's sympathy only went so far though, as they proved difficult in lending resources to the castaway crew, expecting coin in return when the crew then only had the clothes on their backs, if that. The crew was forced to scavenge for food, water, and materials, and finally built a raft to hold the few of them. But the sun beat too strongly, and while they were out drifting in the Carajol Sea, they ended up eating all their rationed fruit and drinking water long before they saw another speck of land. Barbosa explained his experience in Kuai since they arrived in their critical state. The Feraligatr listened, patiently, to his credit, while leaning on an elbow.

As Anarchy ran her pink eye over the Feraligatr's face, she began to fidget on the heel of her boot. She could feel the thick, tense aura in the air, and it made her grip the massive nail she propped over her shoulder even tighter. Getting a little antsy as Barbosa drew to a close, she glanced over instead at the other company Gallagher had before them: the Monferno who sat wantonly over a backwards chair, and a concerned Hydreigon under a tall stovepipe hat. She let her eyes linger for a moment before she heard her name called.

"Our Navigator, Anne the Banette, can give you a full recount," said Barbosa. "As well as the 'mon you've so graciously lent us from your very own fleet to better maneuver pirate territory, Enzo Teller the Toxicroak: Striker, and Emmanuel Igboh the Passimian: Boatswain." The two pirates gave a nod towards the Admiral, though the Scizor they worked to carry all the way here glanced at his own dragging feet.

Anne stepped forward and slammed her nail down into the floorboard, saluting with her other hand as she took a confident pose.

"Anarchy Anne, I am! I'll be sure to answer any questions you might have, Mister Admiral Sir! As the ship's Navigator, all of this falls on me on account of the storm, not on my Captain!" She could feel Barbosa's displeasure radiate off him, but she didn't care to let him take any blame, and he knew it wasn't his place now to argue it. "But this storm was completely, entirely, unnaturally unpredictable. It came out of the clear, sunny blue, and flooded us in minutes! We were totally throttled under the rain and the sudden waves, Admiral, Sir."

The Monferno's ears rose at the mention of a storm that could not in any way be predicted, and he looked at Anarchy with renewed interest. He seemed to believe her.

The Admiral did not.

Charles had his eyes pinned on the Banette. He was motionless throughout her apologetics, until this point. He pointed at Anarchy with a claw, the Dragon Guardian's ring shining on it, his eyes half-shut threateningly. "Ye lie," he said, his anger churning, made obvious by his wild yellow gaze. "What shit Navigator can't predict a storm? Barbosa! Is this the kinda 'mon ye hire for ye crew? Where'd ye pick her up, a circus? Ye ruined y'all."

Barbosa reacted with a protesting "Admiral!" Anarchy took another step forward, this time with a stamp of her foot. As she spoke through her sealed brass teeth, her one eye had a sharpened look, ready to contest.

"I'd never lie if it put my Captain on the line," she retorted. "I may have one eye, but my special skills is what makes me a cut above the rest of Wayfare's Navigators. That's what our guildmaster says, and that's why the guild's best merchant captain, Captain Barbosa, picked me for the crew that you contracted!" Seeing the anger start to build in the Admiral's face, she started to gush faster, needing to get her word in. "I'm telling you with every little bit that makes me me: if I couldn't predict a storm hours in advance, it's because it wasn't a storm meant for this world!"

A voice spoke up from behind her. She turned to see it was Emmanuel, out of term and passionate. "Anarchy is telling the truth, A'miral! And I cannot tell a lie! Swear it on my mo-ther's grave!"

"Yes." The situation forced Enzo to break his usual silence, but even he wore some conviction in his face. "We've no reason to lie and cover her back if it risked our own, Admiral."

Finally, through gritted teeth, Vincent lurched forward, though his two crew members held him steady as he shouted, "Maybe my opinion isn't worth a damn because I'm not some reeking, soppy, bloated pirate, but roast me on a spit in hell if I'm going to be dragged in with two broken legs and have you tell us what we saw! It was a storm for all the ages, like Arceus wanted to cleanse all the seas of our foul lives. Some of us died out there, and you think we're making up tall tales? You?"

The Feraligatr closed his mouth, evidently unconvinced and fed up. "Storms don't happen outta nowhere, an' that's that for ye, ye lying sacks o' filth," he shouted so loudly, the Monferno had to cover his ears; spit flew in all directions from the immense jaws of the furious Admiral. "Yer all fired. Ye pirates too, fired. Incompetent, useless. We'll be takin' everythin' ye currently own," he said without mercy. "Everythin'. As reparations. It won't be enough," he said, "But ye miserable swabs can never pay me back for that lost cargo. And pray I don't ever see ye lot again in me parts, or I'll skewer ye all bow to stern." He gestured with his arm to his crew.

"Yo--" the Monferno began saying.

"Mates, looks like ye ran proper outta luck, hic," Nasty Joe said, and as the Gallagher Pirates lunged in like they were attacking prey, he grabbed Emmanuel's hat.

A small coin purse tumbled off the Passimian's bandaged head, the only thing of value they had: pocket change given to them by the local doctor.

Barbosa's crew panicked as they were suddenly rushed, forcing a reaction from the dire situation. As the Persian himself hissed and darted away beyond sight in instinctive self-preservation, the others were left without any direction or voice of reason.

Anarchy heard the metallic ring in one solid bash of metal to bone, and she knew that somewhere in the crowd, Vincent got in a good few jabs with a Bullet Punch. Nearby, splattering gobs of caustic bile erupted over the hoard, and she figured it was Enzo's crowd control, imagining well-timed Sucker Punches and Poison Jabs from him all the while. She wasted no time herself, as the Sludge Bombs were indiscriminate. She hastily picked up her nail and wielded it like a rapier. Small and nimble on her feet despite what looked like a heavy weapon, she clashed her blade against slashing claws and sweeping tails. She dodged what she could as she just barely fell short of powerful blows, and found her skin and dress nicked. But she couldn't keep it up for long.

She bumped into the familiar matted coat of Emmanuel, who was dangerously engaged in Close Combat as best he could, the only one keeping Vincent steady with an arm around his neck. When she turned to give the two her usual snappy encouragement, she took a blow square to her gut, and doubled over in pain. The sting had the reminiscent grip of a Dark imbue, and it was enough to knock the wind out of her. She realized that if she were being Beat Up by a Gallagher Pirate, their sheer resolve in numbers would knock her out in another hit.

She hated to leave her team like this, but she had to save herself.

With the rest of her will and amplified by the chaos around her, her mouth tore open in a deafening Screech, and her body crumpled to the ground as a ball of faint, violet energy shot out. The energy whirled around in the headspace above the commotion before careening back into the cowed ruckus.

Huddled in a dark corner, hair raised and back against the wall, Barbosa watched on as a trademark iron nail rose from the mass bout, unaided. He tried to take a deep breath as the floating weapon crashed its blunt end down on the heads of the pirates, and he wondered what he had done to deserve this.
 

Greiger

A mad mind... hehe
2,016
Posts
12
Years
  • Age 32
  • Seen Oct 1, 2023
Old Ties



The unfortunate folks of Wayfare & Co. were swept out in a matter of minutes without any serious casualties, apart from a couple of bruises, cuts and a black eye. The weathered pirates of Gallagher's crew put them on the ground, and the Feraligatr waved for them to be removed as quickly as possible. Captain Barbosa and his crew were tossed out of the cave and taken to the Ire... Except for the Xatu that had come in with them, she was nowhere to be found. A few of the pirates complained of lingering headaches, so there was certainly a Psychic in the fight there somewhere. But at some point during the struggle she must have vanished.

It had happened way too fast. Jon had a feeling those merchants weren't lying about a storm that appeared out of nowhere. The skies held all kinds of mysteries, and the knowledge of 'mons in the Known World fell desperately short when explaining accurately all those kinds of phenomena.

When he saw what was happening, he wanted to act, maybe put an end to the fighting. But it was impossible. Gallagher's crew were twenty or so men, a strong force even without their captain. He couldn't just challenge them all.

Not even a second passed when Gallagher's crew left and a familiar form walked in. "Ahem... Jon," the Furret stated, angling his scarf so he could be heard better, "We have a problem... a big one going on."

"Sam-boy!" Jon shouted, delighted.

"Who in Flint's curse are you?" the Admiral barked.

"He's one of us, my Striker," Jon said proudly.

Sam snapped his head to the admiral, smirking a bit underneath his scarf, "Three years ago. That Pangoro you wanted dead? Poison in the heart, no? We've already met, in a way." He turned his eyes back to Jon, "Look... a contract of mine is possibly going to escape this place soon. I need you to get your ship moving as fast as possible and cut her off. This is a shit load of money I'm talking about here." He turned his head back to the admiral again, "Also, just so you're in the know, the Party God is spying on this place of yours. He wants it bad. Already some of his chess pieces are in place here, it seems. You want the full scoop? I have a scared little Ledian girl in cahoots with him who will more than likely leave at some point, and I rather gnab her before she gets too far." He crossed his arms, "She has the brains on everything going down here." He gave a nod, "Overheard her speaking to Leandius. Showed him a notebook with all of their plans. We get that book... we keep you in power."

The Feraligatr's nostrils flared with rage. "Leandius? Working for the Party God? I knew it, that bastard. Furious Jonathan," he shouted, "Is ye Striker speaking true?"

Jon shrugged. "If I trust him, you can trust him."

"I knew it," he said again. He must've been suspecting something for a long time. "I'll strangle that poxy priest with me own hands," the Admiral roared in fury, and glanced at the Furret. "Yer name is Sam, aye? Ye will be rewarded fer this info."

The Feraligatr jumped off his couch; it was the first time Jon saw him standing up. He was leaner than the usual Feraligatr, but well-built still. "Neorion. Come over to port and set a blockade. Nobody leaves this fuckin' island until I'm done with these traitors," he said, seemingly talking to no one. Jon guessed he was using a psychic's telepathic network to contact his ship that was probably docked away from the islander's eyes - because Neorion was the name of the Admiral's frigate.

The Feraligatr ran outside the Silver Arrowhead, the feathers on his tricorne hat flailing wildly.

Jon glanced at Cook and Sam. They were left alone for a few moments.

"This Ledian the journalist you talked about?" Jon asked Sam. "That you wanted dead?"

Sam smirked, "Looks like we'll need her alive... for now." He glanced at the Feraligatr, "But... no doubt she'll be tortured to death here. It'll be a beautiful sight, of course."

Jon looked at the Furret with a bit of concern in his eyes. He knew, ever since Sam asked him to join the crew, that he was not a bad person. "You got something against this Ledian, Sam? You know her from days past?"

Sam was silent, "... She works for someone that wronged me." He snorted, "Everyone that works for him will die by my hand. Have you ever had anyone burn you so bad... twist your world so wildly that you knew from that day onward that every single family member, every friend of theirs, every contact they trusted would have to die?" He shook his head, "Jon... I hope you never know that pain. Once it eats you up, it doesn't let go."

The Party God? Jon thought. It was disturbing to see his mate like this. Consumed by hatred.

"Samuel..." breathed the Hydreigon, momentarily overtaken by solemnity at the Furret's words before more pressing matters took his attention again. "I- er, say, did anyone catch where our dear Psychic has gone?"

Jon had one last look at Sam, before he glanced towards the exit of the Arrowhead's cave. "She's ported out," he said with certainty. "Let's go, lads. I wanna see what the Admiral'll do..."


***​


A roar loud as a vessel's airhorn tore the usual quiet of the island's port. Water splashed around the Feraligatr as his Aqua Jet propelled him forward at top speed, even on land. Stands in the market were being knocked down as Charles blazed a wild, watery trail to where he'd been told the Graveller priest was. Now that night had fallen, it was hard for anyone without the eyes built for it to see what was going on. The jet knocked over some citizens with ill luck, and others screamed in terror and hurried to get out of the way.

The Admiral's crew of around twenty was following close behind, trying to catch up with the jet while decrying the priest as a traitor working with the Party God, so everyone would hear and know what was going on.

Jon burst out into the light outside the Retreat, following the pervasive shouting and screaming of the Admiral's crew and their deranged captain.

"Leeeaaaandius!" the Admiral's shouts broke amid the waterfall-like sound of the jet and screams of terror. The Feraligatr's snake-like tongue was sticking out and his yellow eyes were hungry for blood. "I know yer secret, ye bloated Qwilfish hunk of rock!"

The priest was on his way to the church for the night when he heard the pandemonium erupting from Fayn's Retreat. When he turned around, the bags with the items he'd most probably bought in the market earlier that day dropped, along with his mouth. Once he realized he was in danger, he waddled as fast as his tiny legs could carry him inside the port's general store. Not used to running, he tripped and rolled inside while screaming, "HELP! HELP! CLOSE THE DOOR!" The owner of the shop, seeing the priest of the town, must've obliged him because the wooden door was slammed shut right after.

It was all for nothing.

The Feraligatr crashed head-first into the wall in an explosion of water and rubble and dust. The building shook and creaked from the impact and numerous visible ruptures, small or large, shot through its bricks like lightning; a second later, the side of the building that faced the sea collapsed.

"Mother of Kyogre," Jon shouted as he saw all of this from afar. A street light was knocked over and went out in the water.

Any lesser 'mon would've died in that crash, but the Admiral, still on his two feet, shook off the rubble that had fallen on him like he was shooing bugs. Jon heard the sound of quickly-forming solid ice, a scream, and ice breaking into pieces, over and over. When he reached the general store, he saw the Feraligatr had trapped the Graveller down on the floor in a glacier, beneath his legs, and was beating him up mercilessly with Ice Punches. Icicles kept forming and smashing as his hands went up and down, ice scattered around with an ugly sound at each blow.

"I'll make ye regret thinking," the Admiral vowed through the flurry of Ice Punches, pausing between breaths, "Of servin' that degenerate lowlife. The Party God has no place in Carajol. Do ye understand? Do ye understand me NOW?"

The smack-down that Admiral Charles laid upon the priest of Kuai would be dramatized in the whole of the civilized world for years to come. The message was clear: Carajol did not tolerate Osenian influence. Within the land and seas and skies of the Pirate Alliance, the Big Five's rule was absolute, indisputable. And from that point on, whoever in Carajol got an invitation to one of the Party God's parties, they had to think twice before accepting, for fear of the wrath of the pirates.

By the time Jon stepped over the rubble, the Graveller must've passed out, as he wasn't making a sound. Ice sharp as claws was emerging from a mist on Charles's tightened fist. Another Ice Punch was coming. But Jon grabbed his arm, stopping him from throwing it. The Feraligatr looked back, angrily, but he didn't expect to find Jon. The Monferno didn't have to say anything; the look on his face was enough.

Charles let the ice drop from his readied fist, and he rose. He spat on the fallen, unconscious Graveller, and dusted off his hands.
 
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  • Age 28
  • Seen Mar 25, 2024



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Pegasus


Nobles from all over the world gathered each day in Centura, a floating castle in the middle of Sonara's grassy, flat plains, and only the noblest of the noble could enter the glorious throne rooms (as there were several) to see the ones sitting on them: the Eternal Stars, the religious leaders of the faith of Arceus. Their militant adherents, the Thousand Arms, were stationed all over the castle, but were never visible to guests. Only ghost-types that could sink into walls and become invisible were being recruited - or created, according to rumors that the Eternal Stars wished to be silenced...

A generally secretive group, the Eternal Stars always disliked the spotlight from the wider public, even though they enjoyed impressing their vassals. They did everything in their power to keep their activities and decisions quiet from the public, which knew of them as saints and nothing more. Their power far exceeded that of a king - their empire was faith, the One Faith, and it breached the borders of dozens of nations and the minds of millions of Pokemon. Kings, presidents, ministers, all secretly bent under the enormous weight of Eternal Star's invisible influence; they were but mere pawns for the Eternal Stars to push around and play with. And if some leader elected to get tough and brave on them, he was ruined and cast aside, to lose his country and his life. Nations were built and destroyed at the command of this reticent group of lords. Thousands upon thousands of people, innocents too, had perished in their grand quest for complete unity and ruthless, totalitarian rule. And their will was irresistible, as it was carried out by a number of powerful tools, most prominently the Avian Naval Force, the strongest military power the Known World had ever seen.

The Eternal Stars were everything the Pirate Alliance stood against.

A Shedinja emerged from the lustrous white marble floor, exactly ten yards away from the throne, as was the custom. The throne room was busy with nobles at this time of the day, yet none of them was allowed or dared to go within a certain, fixed number of steps from the throne.

The ghost, a servant and member of the Thousand Arms, bowed to the one who was perched upon the throne: a Pidgeot that deserved all of the magnificence of the rest of the castle. He was so well groomed and decorated so expertly that it was impossible to tell how old he was - he was made to look ageless deliberately. Red plumes were added into the mane of yellow feathers on his crest and his wingtips and tailfeathers were painted blue, all with the purpose of making him look like he was in Mega form (and convincingly so), while in reality it was all just for show. The star-jewel he was wearing above his head like a crown signified his position.

The Shedinja didn't dare speak, as he sensed that the Pidgeot was talking to someone using the psychic network, and he was to never interrupt. But the Pidgeot cast a questioning glance upon the Shedinja, as if to say, what do you want?

"Your Brilliant Radiance," the Shedinja said in a voice free of any emotion. "Admiral Jin Inozama is on the line." The Pidgeot didn't move his beak or a muscle, but his affirmative reached the Shedinja's mind. The ghost presented a Shellder clam. It floated on its own, crossing the distance between the Shedinja and the throne with the help of psychic power provided by the same invisible servants who were responsible for maintaining the psychic network of incoming and outgoing thoughts.

The Pidgeot merely looked at the nobles chatting busily at the sides of the throne room, and the voice of the Thousand Arms psychically resonated in their minds, requesting their departure, as the call was important. Without further warning, they were mass teleported out of the hall, possibly to wait in one of the grand and deeply extravagant lounges and salons of Centura. Talking to your guests by telepathy could be considered rude... if you weren't an Eternal Star. Then, it was considered fashionable.

When the Pidgeot turned to look at the clam that was levitating in front of him, it opened, and an image was projected in front of the throne; psychic powers were at play to show the image of an imposing, virile Thundurus on his Incarnate form, floating gently on his cloud. He was wearing the white coat of the ANF with dozens of badges on his lapel and the signature hat with the winged anchor that was traditionally blue, but Admiral Jin's anchor was grey and gold.

"Your Brilliant Radiance," he spoke, quickly and in a serious, direct manner, as was his usual. "Lord Pegasus, I hope you're having a fantastic day. My apologies if the signal is weak." Just as he said it, the projected image trembled.

"No need to apologize, dear Jin!" Lord Pegasus sang in a rather effeminate voice as smooth as silk. "I can hear you splendidly." Despite the niceties, a message was sent down the ranks of the Thousand Arms. If some lazy psychic was responsible for the weak signal, they were about to be flogged in a few seconds. "But I require an apology for the interruption, for you see, I was just talking to Kassander, and have left him hanging." Lord Kassander was another one of the Eternal Stars; Pegasus didn't even deign to call him Lord Kassander, as he should have. "Would you like to know what we were prattling about? The Mercenary King! He's about to wage another war in the floodplains." He didn't seem upset or sad or displeased; on the contrary, he was very thrilled. "I will bet on him a few hundred million berries, and one of my daughter's toy jewels. He has high chances to win this time around. Kassander scorns me and declares that the band he backs will win, he says they are cornered and more desperate, so they'll fight harder. How sad! He neglects that the Mercenary King has bred and hired hundreds of fire-types, which most obviously have the advantage during the summer! I have won before the battle has even started!" The Pidgeot said with great excitement, and the Shedinja clapped his hands to echo his master's delight.

War was a sport for the Eternal Stars. They cast their gaze from above, on fields of battle, suffering, pain and sorrow, and thought it was amusing. Their immense power and wealth had made them so detached from reality, their minds so corrupt, that their arrogance and debauchery knew no bounds.

Jin cleared his throat, trying his best to keep his face devoid of anything that might betray his disapproval. "That's good, my lord."

"Who do you think will win?" The Pidgeot asked.

"The Mercenary King," Jin said with certainty, and not just to lick Pegasus's boot. He didn't like that this was a game to the Eternal Stars, but it was still war, and Jin loved to talk about war. "He's much more organized than any opposing army in the floodplains. It doesn't matter if his enemies are desperate. Fighting hard doesn't earn you sure victory. But, my lord, I have to move on to the main topic of my call. I'm calling you to report on our operation. The--"

"Jin, Jin," Lord Pegasus ignored him and said playfully, smiling, "Didn't you notice my new crown?" The Pidgeot moved for the first time in a good many hours, raising his wing to show the golden star above his head. "I threw away the crystal one. Crystals don't fit me after all. They're so... transparent and ordinary, like glass."

The Thundurus's eye twitched. He had to force himself to get used to the aloofness of Pegasus ever since he became an Admiral. Pegasus himself seemed to enjoy goofing him on purpose. "Yes, my lord," Jin said, letting a hint of his growing impatience spill over his tone. "That crown looks amazing on Your Blessed Eternity." He supposed that the most privileged creature in the Known World could afford to take everything lightly... his job was to do the exact opposite.

"But go on, dear Jin," Lord Pegasus prodded him with a sassy smile, raising his eyebrows.

"I'll begin with the most interesting news first. We got reports of the unbridled storm, and we think we found Solo's trail," he said as succinctly as possible, so as not to be interrupted again. "The storm blasted a merchant ship to smithereens, to hear tell of it."

"Aww, that Solo. Such a little troublemaker. And where did that terrible, terrible thing happen?" Lord Pegasus said with concern that was entirely superficial. His voice echoed in the hall.

"East Carajol. There are other reports of the storm from the area, so I've flown to investigate myself. I'm way out in the Novayas right now."

"How nice! How exotic! Did you award yourself with a vacation? An amble on the golden shores?" the Eternal Star said cheerfully, as if he didn't care if that actually happened. The thought of a corrupt Admiral amused him greatly.

"I'm on duty," said Jin seriously, "It looks like I'm on the right track, my lord." Jin had been Admiral for two years now, and the first time they talked he thought Pegasus was the typical stupid noble, too privileged and nihilistic to care about the intricacies of the field work of the very ANF he commanded. Initially, he despised Pegasus for his apparent sluggishness... but then he began learning he wasn't as hideously lazy or stupid or childish as he appeared to be, and that he could talk seriously and work with him. That was the only reason he wasn't losing his patience now, and the reason he hadn't lost all respect for the Pidgeot. "All the signs are there," Jin said quickly, to lure him with intrigue, "The storm appears out of nowhere and is so catastrophic that it blows airships like they're just leaves. It prefers to show in the middle of nowhere, away from land. As if it's consciously directed by a 'mon that avoids stepping on land. We've followed what appears to be a trail, based on sporadic reports we got."

As he was speaking, the Shedinja got the telepathic order to produce a drink for the Eternal Star. The glass, filled with a thick orange liquid, a nectar from all sorts of berries and fruits, flew towards the Pidgeot who picked up the straw with his beak and began sucking as it floated in front of him. His large red eyes were studying Jin as he drank. "Can it be Rain Dancers?" the Pidgeot mused, letting go of the straw for a second. It was an interesting theory that just came to his mind.

The Thundurus brought a hand to his chin, seemingly considering it. He didn't want to offend the Eternal Star by outright denying it, but there was some merit to the idea anyway. "You need a lot of Rain Dancers to summon a storm this quick, but would it be as strong?"

"Stay on the area, and find out," Lord Pegasus commanded him.

"I'm on it. We'll catch him, my lord," Admiral Jin said reliably, appreciating the fact that Pegasus at last focused on the subject. The image trembled for a few seconds, and the Admiral seemed to understand it was happening, so he paused until it stopped. "There's also another reason I called you. Do you remember the priest of Kuai we talked about?"

"Leandius?" Pegasus asked, taking a sip from the straw with his gaze fixed on the Admiral, his red eyes reflecting the projected image.

"Yeah," Jin said, "We once suspected he sold out to the Party God. Last week I sent one of my air marshals to investigate, with no official warrant, as not to churn the waters over there, and what'd you know. I talked to him few minutes ago, and we were right."

Pegasus seemed to have gotten a bit more serious. The Party God was a dire threat to their government, and his expansion to Carajol from Osenia was only bad news. The Pirate Alliance could be negotiated with, but the Party God? He was an absolutely unpredictable madman.

That priest needed to be taught a lesson - and not only him, those who would presume to follow his example. "Make an example of him. If you can't do it, send the SI-1."

Admiral Jin was bewildered at the suggestion. "The SI-1, my lord? Do you think some priest in the Novayas is worth sparing the agency for?"

The SI-1 consisted of the ultimate, most elite assassins - only Pokemon with extraordinary talents were admitted, trained and brainwashed thoroughly with the help of psychics into serving every command of the Government, no matter how cruel and despicable it was. As one of their last tests, the agents were asked to commit suicide, and if they didn't, they were discarded, if they tried and succeeded, they realized it was all a dream, or a nightmare, produced by their trainers.

And they weren't trained only to kill. They were trained to undertake all sorts of tasks that the ANF, as the ultimate arbiters of the law and morality, could not be seen undertaking by the public, or simply fell out of their range of capabilities. Intimidation, impersonation, manipulation, espionage, mind reading, sabotage - the agents of the SI-1, under the command of the Eternal Stars, used any and all tactics to influence the fate of nations. Or go on a mission to humiliate a nobody in Carajol, on the whim of their masters.

"But of course I would spare them," Lord Pegasus sang, "They've not been doing anything interesting lately. I'm itching to see them do some tricks. Some of them can even do acrobatics with more flair than the actors in the opera. What shall I have them do next? Perhaps kidnap that priest and send him to live in Jurago Jungle, hmm? See him meet his primitive relatives and find out how long he lasts with them? Aha... aha-ahahaha!" Pegasus's melodic laughter rang in the empty hall.

The Admiral tightened his mouth slightly in distaste and waited out the laughter politely. "It might be too late for all that," the Thundurus continued. "The traitor Gallagher found him out first, and he beat him bloody, just over an hour ago. We think Leandius is dead."

"Aww," Lord Pegasus let out. "That isn't fun. Charlie, such a dreadful, dreadful man. He really is a pirate, after all. And was there a trial for Leandius, Jin?"

"There was nothing of the sort. Witnesses claim Gallagher burst out of his hideout and beat the man to death, or near it. He used Ice Punches, evidently taking advantage of typing weakness. He was aiming to kill, in my opinion. And he was in a rage, he kept throwing them... before being stopped by somebody."

The Pidgeot paused, frowning. It took a few moments for his mind to fully register what he had heard. "Someone stopped Gallagher? Who would dare?"

"A Monferno. We suspect he is Public Enemy #64, Jonathan Sawyer."

"A rookie," the Pidgeot said scornfully. He hadn't seen who or what was past the #10 on the Public Enemy list in some five years. Anyone beyond #10 was irrelevant to him.

Pegasus's frown remained for a few moments. Charles was once an admiral, and like all the admirals of the ANF, he was elected in that position because he was a powerhouse, and because he was cruel enough to use his power correctly. He may have been wrong in choosing Charles to be an admiral, as he deserted their cause, but he was always certain he had chosen a powerful 'mon either way. To be stopped by a Monferno, of all species... it ticked Pegasus's intuition.

But he was distracted by a more pleasant thought that occurred to him.

The Pidgeot forgot about his drink; the glass floated gently at a slight angle, like it was in space. "The foolishness of pirates never ceases to confound," he said slowly, his red eyes seeming more clever than before. It was this side of him that Admiral Jin respected. "Leandius was still beaten badly. Priesthood is sacred. For a priest to be condemned without a trial is an atrocity!" The Pidgeot didn't seem much concerned with the morality of it, but he was certainly pleased with the situation. "Oh, the people will not like that. Poor, poor Charles," he chirped in a mockingly sad tone.

He dropped the concerned act and said with a pleased grin, "Make everyone talk about it. Get our news to report on the story all day and night for a few months, until the peasants get sick and tired of hearing of it and talking about it."

"As you wish," Admiral Jin said, and turned his head somewhere on the right. Someone seemed to be saying something to him, and he nodded in understanding. When next he turned to the Pidgeot he said, "Our psychics may have picked up on a new lead on the wild storm. I'll have to end this call for now, but rest assured I'll keep you updated. Jin out."

"Adieu!" Lord Pegasus exclaimed loudly. He signaled for the clam to shut, and the Thundurus faded.
 
Last edited:

Jauntier

Where was your antennas again?
690
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  • Age 33
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  • Seen Apr 6, 2018
3/7/1076

The Tides

The sea breeze was a familiar whisper. Despite circumstance and company, it always spoke in long, drawn sighs.

The five sat on the beach for the longest time. They only listened as they watched the idle water's surface glint under the sun. It was early afternoon now, yet it felt as if the morning never ended. It felt as if the morning had become the rest of their lives.

Anarchy let the breeze tussle with the hem of her fringed, torn dress. The huddled Banette stared out into the bay with one eye as she hugged her ship nail against her chest.

After a time, she interrupted the breeze: "What do you think will happen to us?"

There was no spoken answer, just the choking surge of conflicting auras. Their negative emotions, she felt, were crushing. It forced her to turn right and stare it all down.

Barbosa laid beside her, dead weight on the sand. His face was covered by the shadow of his paw, his hat nowhere to be seen. He refused to speak. Enzo sat slouched into his own lap, his arms crossed on his knees. His eyes were low, moving about the sand as if searching for himself there. Emmanuel was sprawled on his back, observing the clear sky and silently mouthing words only Arceus would hear.

To her left, she turned to face the Scizor. Vincent's pained yellow eyes held her stare. He gripped his legs' newly scavenged, improvised splints, and replied: "Nothing. Nothing happens to nobodies, Anarchy. We're dead on this beach."

Then she heard Barbosa's quiet, rolling accent beside her: "There is nothing for us back in Liverte ports. Once the guildmaster finds that I've cost him not only thousands from this failure, but... likely ended his ties with his most infamous client..."

"Nothing happens to nobodies," Vincent repeated. "We're as alive as the crew we've lost to sea. Oh Arceus, bless us all."

Anarchy was still as she came to terms with the striker and captain's words. Then she asked, "And Enzo? Emmanuel?"

There was a solitary moment before she heard the Passimian, muttering in his dialect before sucking his teeth in disdain. "They juke us, oh. Juke with rusty nail." Anarchy gripped her iron tighter. Emmanuel continued, "No money. No labor. No bed." He closed his eyes and whispered, "No black for me, yeh? No black for me."

The funeral line hung in the air for some time before Enzo finally croaked his piece: "My family were Gallagher Pirates, and I've lost many. Now, I'm an orphan." He raked his knuckle across the sand. "Like Emmanuel. Like the others we left with the doctor. We've been disgraced."

Anarchy lifted her head, defiant in all the adversity. "No!" she rejected, rocking onto her feet to stand. "You're not an orphan! You're our family, now! We don't belong to stubborn, wrongheaded Gallagher! And—And we don't belong to a greedy, shallow Wayfare, neither! They don't know what they're missing if they guess again when we're the best!"

"Anne." She turned to the Persian, who whispered but didn't stir. "I've known the guild all my working life, and nothing else. The height of my career was this single job. I am reaching two score now, and in a matter of weeks, it has all come crashing down on me. This is Providence's way of cleaning my slate. I had compromised so much of my values to succeed in Wayfare. Now here I am, cast aside, with all my riches an ocean away. I captain nothing."

"No!" She stamped her boot as she stabbed the nail into the sand. "We still have a crew! The seas are our lives! We can start our own business—why, we have all the smarts and guts and talent to! We just need time to recover, and then we can do anything!" Her pink eye began to glisten in the light, searching for expressions behind a film of tears. "This is just the beginning, isn't it? This is just the beginning of a journey...!"

No one answered. Her brass grin, already pinched at the corners, faltered. She slumped to the ground, her arms in a hanging embrace around her nail. She looked away from them, batting her eye to keep it all in.

She heard the Scizor's wry laughter through gritted teeth. She knew his face was twisted in pain, pity, and pride. "Anarchy," he began, "you're the freest out of all of us miserable 'mon. You can still run, and dance, and fight. You don't need to eat, drink, or sleep. You have so much energy and life, but look at the rest of us. Look at me, Anarchy." She turned to meet Vincent once again, and the Scizor sat there with sobered eyes. "I'm all broken from my knees down, Anarchy. This won't heal for another three months, if I stay good. Do you know what I would give to start fresh with you? Do you know what I would give to follow you on a new journey, making new lives for us? Damn it, Anarchy, I want to!"

She felt something trickle down her left cheek, wet and staining there.

Vincent turned his head to glower at the distant boardwalk, watching colorful figures go about their day. "I want to. But I'll just be holding you back."

"So then I'll wait for y—"

"Stop!" he snapped. "I can't speak for Barbosa laying there, hopeless and withering, just wallowing in his depression—I can't. I can't speak for Enzo who hardly ever talks, or Emmanuel who always paints on a short smile, because they're pirates, and pirates are all the damn same to me. But you've got to move on, Anarchy. We can't catch up, not so soon, not like you. You've got so much time to find yourself. You have so much potential. Arceus, you can do great things, Anarchy. And you can bet that I'll catch up to you one day—and maybe the rest of them, the rest of us—but until then, don't be anchored."

He stared back out to the water. "Now give us time to grieve."

Anarchy heeded him. She joined them in their silence, staring back out to the water while the breeze sighed again.


***



Feathered wings lifted off a wooden orb. A bird's right eye opened again, and she pulled her head up, returning to the present moment.

The Xatu had returned to the game stall from earlier in the day. The earlier events had seared it into her memory, anchoring at as a surprisingly effective point to teleport. At this late hour, neither customer nor owner were to be found, and the old woman had found herself drawn to the lonely game table.

She'd found the very same wooden ball that the Banette had thrown before, the moments their paths crossed for the first time. Touching it helped the Xatu connect in a small way to the Banette—the object now had a history with Anarchy, if brief.

Her other aid was still held in her wing: a small scrap of tattered cloth from the Ghost's dress, lost in the commotion of the fight. The two items combined gave the psychic just enough focus for her scrying. The bird lifted her gaze to the sky, melancholy in light of this recent vision. Thinking of those survivors laid out on the beach, she felt heavyhearted. None of them deserved that twist of fate.

She felt the desire to reach out a helping wing to them. Was there anything she could say that would assuage their pain, or make them feel more in control?

At the very least, now she knew where they were, or at least where they had been that morning. And though she hadn't looked into the future, something told her that they wouldn't be going anywhere anytime soon.

The Xatu spread her wings, and made toward the smell of the sea.


***​


As she approached the shoreline, the bird tilted into a passive dip, coming down for a quiet landing in the sand near the group. The Banette raised her eye to the familiar Xatu—the arrival wasn't expected, but it wasn't sudden, either. Following suit, the other castaway crew lifted their eyes to stare the bird down. They wore their blank expressions, distant yet waiting.

The Seer tucked her white wings flush with her front, as was habit. Her eyes drifted across the faces of Wayfare & Co. By what she could tell, no one had moved an inch since her vision. "My apologies for my sudden disappearance during the skirmish we were caught up in. It seems they mistook me for one of your crew."

Anarchy scrambled to her feet, uttering, "It's okay! It's not your fault!"

"You weren't supposed to come with us, anyway." At the disdain in his voice, Anarchy turned to look at Vincent. The Scizor's stare was a hard, whetted one, and they did not ease for Anarchy this time. They kept on her as he spoke past her to the psychic. "You're just some stranger who got dragged along with nothing better to do, so you didn't say no."

Anarchy's fingers balled up into fists as she and Vincent deadlocked glares. The Toxicroak, Enzo, let out a low, churning croak in his throat as his gaze fell back to the sand. Vincent heeded the warning and held his tongue then.

The Seer spoke. "Strangers at the time, perhaps, but no longer." She averted her gaze from the Scizor's scornful eyes to read the others' faces. "How are you all feeling?"

Again, there was the rumbling croak, though it began to crescendo and strain. When it fell silent, so too were the others, all returning back to their concentric thoughts and her disregard. All but Anarchy.

The Ghost turned to The Seer, leaning over her nail to whisper, "That wasn't a very keen question." Especially for a psychic, she thought, but for once she knew better. Quickly, she changed the subject. "Why are you here, Mrs. Feathersby?"

Though a little embarrassed, the old bird moved on as promptly as Anarchy did. "I was moved to, my dear," she answered, before lifting her gaze to the Persian nearby. "Captain Barbosa, may I share a few words with you and your crew?"

The Persian did not lift his head, only to quietly rasp, "You are your own."

"Well. I came because... I wish to express my deepest condolences for your recent circumstances." When she spoke to the group, the elder came off quite formal, but each expression sounded heartfelt. "My heart goes out to each of you. Not one of you deserved such a result."

Her eyes met Enzo's. "Though I cannot claim to know the pain of losing the lives of such a number of allies…" Her eyes moved to Emmanuel. "I do know the difficulties associated with a sudden and unfair change, one that upends your life and leaves you on your own." And to Vincent's eyes. "As a nobody."

Though he wouldn't meet her eyes, the bird looked to Barbosa again. "Right now, perhaps you feel the scroll of your legacy and livelihood has been torn off, as I did." Certainly, the Oracle looked old enough to have experienced many hardships, but the one she spoke of now had actually happened quite recently.

Her gaze returned to Vincent, lingering there for a time. "Now, I am a psychic—a clairvoyant. I am no motivational speaker," she admitted. As she concluded, she looked down to Anne, the one nearest her. "But if any of you would like someone to talk to about all this... or about your future... please know that I would be happy to."

Anarchy raised her hand with a jump, an almost bullish eagerness returning to her. "I'll go first! I'll go!" With a strong heave, she uprooted her massive nail from the sand and swung it over her shoulder. She proudly approached the Xatu. "Tell me my future! That's much more interesting, isn't it?"

The others, save the unmoving Barbosa, exchanged their own silent, cautious glances.

The Xatu studied Anarchy's face for a time. She may have appeared to be discerning the lady's readiness, but in reality, she was just now putting together the details of that giant nail and that empty facial fixture. Was THAT what was covering her eye earlier? she thought, somewhere between incredulous and an inward cringe.

The psychic looked a little thrown for a loop. "Ah, well I—I expected the emotional support to precede any augury, but..."

The Ghost type interjected with a zippered grin. "Nothing beats a slump like knowing when it gets better."

The Xatu pulled herself a little more toward composed, doing her best to focus on Anarchy's remaining eye. "You seem eager. What can I see for you, dear?"

Anarchy hadn't thought of specifics. She was about to blurt out Anything, but she supposed her future could be too vast to sort through. She scratched at the stitched scar on her face. "What's my next step?" She looked content, as if she asked a sly question.

"Your next step, Anarchy, is one that you must make alone. It is a step in a different direction." She spoke with weight behind her words, despite her moderate volume. Her eyes remained on Anarchy's lone eye as she gave counsel. "But do not be discouraged, for your steps will not be alone for long. Your footprints will be among others, though the sands will be unfamiliar to you at first. Your allegiance shifts. You put your existing skills to work again, in a new pursuit. You may be surprised just what sort of parties are operating without a full crew."

The psychic lifted her gaze toward Vincent, and a smile reached her eyes. "Your friend there had good advice."

Vincent turned away. Anarchy spun to face him, starry-eyed, but it quickly dampened as she sensed a nervous storm brewing within him.

Emmanuel sat up, his attention finally taken from the sky when the Xatu spoke of her foresight. With a hint of awe in his thick accent, he said, "O! You prophesy like country witch, back in my vill-age. Ah!" He shook his head and flicked his hand as if he had just touched burning coal. "No, no, no. Eh-ya, please, I hold your foot," he earnestly begged. "Tell me what you see for me. Will I ever go back? Will I ever find Brother?"

While the Passimian and Xatu spoke, Anarchy trotted over to Vincent and crouched down before him. She whispered, "Are you happy for me, Vincent? Sooner or later, I'm bound to be on a new life adventure!" She laid her hand on his shoulder, unflinching from the searing heat his steely chitin absorbed all day. "Are you glad?"

Vincent peered up at her. He muttered, "I'm glad that you'll go out and make a decision for yourself to live. Not some generic, far-eyed, carnival fortune-telling nonsense."

Anarchy cupped his cheek in her hand, and said through her brass smile, "You're just so stubborn, and proud of it."

Vincent couldn't help but smile a little.

After the clairvoyant gave Emmanuel a reading he seemed satisfied with, she turned back to the rest of the group. She was pleased that she was able to uplift not one, but two members of the crew. She missed doing this, she realized: personalized readings that had potential to do good in a single person's life.

There was a soft groan that cut Emmanuel's humble thanking short. Everyone turned to see the Persian slowly rise to his weak, unsteady feet. When he found his balance and some vestige of strength to keep him, he shook his body of caked sand. He licked his dry lips, and rasped, "It's getting to be that time." Vincent, Enzo, Emmanuel, and Anarchy stared at him knowingly. Barbosa glanced over his shoulder at the city of Kuai, and so did the band of castaways.

Enzo and Emmanuel stood, grunting all the while from their sores as they lumbered over to Vincent's sides. Anarchy hopped to her feet, lowered her ship nail to her boot, and knocked her heel against the point to loose the end of any sand. Turning away from the others out of courtesy, she raised the nail to where her right eye once was and pushed the point right back in. It went in so smoothly as she kept her brass grin on. The nail's end cleared the back of her head and nestled into her trailing ribbon. She rubbed her fist against the flat nail head to polish it, and turned to see Vincent on his crutches, irritably pushing the Toxicroak and Passimian aside after being helped up. She couldn't help but chuckle.

Barbosa cleared his throat. He turned to the Xatu, and keeping his sunken eyes low, he said, "Thank you. Farewell."

With a toss of his head, the others began to shamble in tow. But just before following up the rear, the Banette turned back around to The Oracle, and rushed the old bird with a big hug. The small, exposed pins on the front of her dress may have accidentally pricked other's chest, but the thought didn't cross her as she whispered, "Thank you so very much, Mrs. Feathersby! You're absolutely precious to care about us!"

Though the wind was knocked out of her for a moment, the elder wrapped her wings across Anne's back. "Your gratitude makes it all worth it, my dear. I'm glad to see a smile return to you."

Anarchy pulled away, giving a big farewell wave with the sun bright in her eye. She turned and trotted after the castaways, headed for cover in the cast shadows of the city's looming terraces. There, they'd be sure not to cross the path of a wandering Gallagher Pirate.


 

GastlyGibus

I'm battin' a thousand!
174
Posts
10
Years

Reaping Rewards​

Drawers, jewels, mirrors, carpets, a bed, and golden medals had been unloaded off the ship by Captain Jon, to the waiting arms of Nasty Joe at the port. Now that they were in league with them, the Gallagher Pirates fenced their many kind of treasures for the one kind of treasure that really mattered: the gold doubloons called 'berries'.

The Blue Bands officially shared the loot, and everyone got what was theirs, with the captain taking two prizes as per the Golden Code of Conduct. It looked like Frag would have protested, but he had learned the Carajol way by now. But before the loot had been shared, Jon drew upon a portion of it for the purpose of maintaining and upgrading the ship.

Over the next few days, Jon brought the dockworkers and metalworkers of the port to upgrade the ship's hull, and fit the vessel with dozens of cannons on both sides. Nick, of course, stood by to 'supervise' the 'mon as they worked; he wasn't about to let his family's pride be sullied by the careless hands of some lazy woodworker. Occasionally he'd step in to do the work himself, making sure everything was as perfect as the ship was.

By midday, the workers were all weary as they labored under the scorching summer sun, so they agreed to take a break.

Nick joined Jon, who was laying back on one of the dock's rocks, watching the work being done with fulfillment. The waves lapped at the rock, and a refreshingly cold gale blew.

"Yo, Nick," Jon said, "You're the expert, they didn't destroy anything?"

"I'd toss 'em in the ocean if they did," Nick replied bluntly, laying flat on his stomach and idly staring out over the ocean. "They're doing an acceptable job so far."

"Awesome!" Jon paused for a few moments, enjoying the breeze. He leaned back on his elbow so he faced Nick, and with a smile, he pointed at their ship. "Remember when it was in the cave, back in Liverte? Damn, we were kids, playing pirate. Now, here we are. And you're still working on it."

Nick couldn't help but smirk at Jon's enthusiasm, thinking back to when they'd first seen the ship, only partially completed. "Never thought I'd actually be flying on her myself," he said plainly. "Certainly a worthy vessel... not to brag or anything."

The Monferno pointed at the set of cannons that had been brought at the shipyard on the beach, where their ship was beached. "She's about to be even worthier. You see those? That's some serious firepower. Gallagher said most of his fleet's equipped with those."

Nick glanced over at the cannons, his shed-covered tail flicking about lazily. "Let's hope we don't have to use them," he answered. "Though after your friend's little display in the square, I think there's probably no avoiding it."

"Aye," Jon said, and his face was unusually impassive for him. "Wait, what'd you mean?" Nick couldn't have meant that they'd have to use their cannons... on the Admiral?

Nick gave a soft sigh, resting his chin over his arms as he glanced at the cannons. "You know, when we first set foot on that vessel in the cave, I'd have thought it would be a symbol of... pride, I guess?" he said, his eyes trailing over the great balloons that allowed the ship to fly. "Maybe it still would be that, but not in the way I'm thinking. Seems like fighting is something that comes with the territory. I was hoping we wouldn't be doing much of it, but what I'm sayin' is, we might not have a choice, our business bein' what it is."

"Can't be otherwise," Jon said, staring at the ship. "The people we want to rob won't go down quietly... and speakin' of that, in my talk with Gallagher, he said the prize we're after might not be such an easy lay after all. Those weapons can save our lives."

Nick sighed again. "Yeah, you're right. 'least I get to take somethin' back from that bloody Trade Prince." He thought for a moment, looking over at the cannons again, then turning to Jon. "You trust that Gallagher guy?

"Nnaah," the Monferno said. "He's a savage. And I say that havin' grown up in the jungle." The breeze fondled the Monferno's hair gently. "All sorts of beasts in the jungle, but none like him." He glanced at his mate. "You? What'd you make of him?"

Nick grimaced slightly. "He's a pirate," he replied simply. "Ain't no honor among thieves, no matter what some fancy pirate's code says. You saw what happened with that priest fella. The minute you stop bein' useful to 'em, I've a feelin' Gallagher will toss you aside without a second thought."

"I don't blame him for being mad," Jon said, somewhat wearily. "One of your own selling out to the Party God? Fuck that shit. But, man, I wouldn't just lay the smackdown on him like that, damn. They took him to some cave now... hope he's still alive after all that punchin' he took. As for Gallagher sellin' us out... I wanna tryna see the best in people. Ya really think he's crooked like that?"

"He's a pirate," Nick repeated. "He only likes you 'cause you're in good with someone he doesn't want beef with. I guarantee you, if you stop bein' useful to him, and you have somethin' he wants? He'll be knockin' down your door the second he can."

"He turned on the marines first, too," Jon attested. "He's a pirate..." he repeated after Nick. "Well we're pirates too. Let me tell ya something, when I was in the jungle, I was raised by a Mankey tribe. They were half-wild, offshoots from civilization, far from being complex creatures. Yet the leader of that tribe was wiser than some of the smart people I met while here, in civilization. He told me, Mankey or Chimchar, you've ta learn to be like other 'mon. You've ta be mighty like a Pyroar and cunning like a Delphox, so that ya crush the Mightyenas when they're onto you because you're mighty, and so that ya see the traps laid before you because you're cunning. Well, I said, I'm gonna become the most mighty and the most cunning of them all."

He chuckled as he got up from the rock, dusted himself off and tied the blue band on his upper arm tighter.

Nick kept to his spot, taking a few more moments to bathe in the sun's warmth. "These other guys are after the same thing, so keep on your toes," he said finally.

Jon looked at the Scrafty at his side, and he suddenly remembered something. "Hey, been meanin' to ask. What're you gonna do with the loot we got?"

Nick looked up at Jon for a moment, before finally standing up and stretching his arms out. "Gonna send some back to my folks, help 'em out while we're out here," he said. "For me, though? Haven't really thought much of it."

Jon smiled, happy that the Darcy family would prosper through his and Nick's endeavors. "There's enough for a few weeks worth of drinkin'. Hey, if you're gonna mail something, let's go together, 'cause I've to mail somethin' too, yeah?"

The Scrafty nodded. "Lead the way, mate."


***​


Nick sat just outside the post office, putting together a small package of coins from his share of the earnings to send in a delivery back home. With the amount he'd made, he could comfortably send back half of his earnings and still have enough for himself.

Jon grabbed an envelope from the counter outside the office and squeezed in the piece of paper he wanted to mail. As he was doing it, he glanced next to him, at his mate. "How much you sending to your old people?" he asked, without concern for his prying.

"Half," Nick replied plainly.

Jon exhaled through a round mouth, raising his eyebrows. "Half, that's gotta be worth at least three or four months for them. See? Crime does pay."

The Scrafty gave a shrug. "You figure we'll keep making hauls like this?"

The Monferno gave him a crooked smile as he was writing something on the envelope he was holding. "Plenty of fish in the sea, my friend."

Nick gave a small nod. "Well, that's good. I figure I can comfortably part with half of it now. I've got enough for whatever catches my eye now, at least for a few weeks." As he finished sealing his mail, he turned over to Jon. "What're you sendin' anyways?"

"This?" The Monferno asked, raising his letter, which was tightly sealed now and ready to be mailed. "Just a few words back home."

Nick gave a small nod. He remembered Jon's dad... "To your mum?" he asked.

"Nah," Jon said, his smile becoming softer than a pirate's. "Mother doesn't remember me anymore. And with the path I've taken now, for the best," he chuckled. "So, no use sending letters to 'er."

"Ah, I see..." Nick replied. He never did see Jon's mother, though he'd thought it best not to pry. "They know about your profession now?" he asked, referring to whomever the recipient was.

"They know a fair share, aye," Jon said, nodding a few times with a conceding look. Nick chuckled in reply.

"Well, I suppose they would, Mister 64th most wanted," he replied with a smirk.

The Monferno puffed out his chest and thumped on it with his fist proudly. "That's me, alright. And the number's gonna be even higher after the marines find out the fast one we're about to pull!"

Nick couldn't help but smirk at Jon's enthusiasm, lightly jabbing the Monferno's shoulder as he placed his delivery on the counter. "Haven't changed a bit, have ya?"

"Hey, y'know me," Jon said cheerfully. "Anything to piss off those mongs."

Nick grinned lightly. "Well, pirating ain't exactly my style, but pissin' off these people?" he began, putting a fist in his other hand. "Now that I can get behind."

Jon laughed loudly as he handed in his letter to the Pidgey Mail Service. "I knew it, man," he said as he faced Nick and tapped his forehead. Nick chuckled again, gripping Jon's shoulder and jutting his head forward, headbutting the Monferno as he would another of his own kind, and Jon happily met the Scrafty's forehead with his own headbutt, a beaming smile on his face.

And with their business in the post office concluded, the two pirates made their way back to their ship.

 

Sweet Dreams

[I]are made of these~[/I]
703
Posts
16
Years
A Helping Hand

In the night, a haunted white dress clutched at its hem and hurried in the shadows. With no moon and only scattered twinklings in the sky, hardly any light caught Anarchy's body. She sprinted freely down the steep terraces that ran up against the city's wall, and in the distance, she saw the towering structure shape the channel and support the lighthouse at its end. As she leapt off of ledges and landed from drops that would fracture any creature with bones, one thing raced in her mind with her: help.

But I can't see a single soul at these docks, she thought to herself, her brass track for a mouth creased into a frown. This is nothing like Liverte. The night bustled as much as the day. I can't see how these folk tire out so easily. Maybe if I get closer.

After one good vault off a ledge, her small leather boots sunk into sand. Blinking away the cloud of dust that plumed over her, she immediately set off down the stretch of beach. As her head scanned the pier for signs of life, her eye caught the faint glow of floating lights that ebbed beneath the water. The memory of Chinchou lights drifting beside her raft as she rowed her crew to port made her smile. Before long, the water lights became few and far scattered, and her downward eye caught the massive hull of a ship.

The shipyard! She lifted her gaze to see a sight filled with vessels. It was crowded with all kinds, and all of them anchored and silent. No, don't tell me here, too. There has to be someone doing something somewhere, else the visitors are just as lazy!

After a few cursory glances here and there, she wandered a few steps onto a pier and beheld the standard merchant ship before her. She put her hands on her hips. Well, it's time to do a thorough check. She took a seat up against a piling, letting it prop her body up as she grabbed at the tag on her zipper.

Hurtling was a violent sensation, but one with which the shot of spectral energy was all too familiar. As it ripped from the gaping mouth of her lifeless body, it streaked through night sky as a tint of violet color. It gained control and awareness of the structures that surrounded it, attuning itself to the natural frequencies that radiate off the world below. It zipped up hulls, matched starboards and portsides, spiraled around decks and peaked over masts before something resonated with it. A steady, inviting beat. A singular action of moving life. When it found itself circling the iron chase of a cannon and phasing over black wood, it jettisoned itself right back across the sky. In seconds, it approached the abyss of a slacked jaw and prepared to breech.

Anarchy jolted awake, and like instinct, immediately zipped her mouth shut. Ooh, I still have that falling feeling in my head. After she staggered just a bit in getting on her feet, she picked up the hem of her dress once more and burst into a sprint. After she rounded the pier and passed ship after ship, her tireless legs stumbled to a halt. Before her was the boldly black ship, her eye bright as she took in its shapely contour. It was certainly intended to be luxurious, and as she stood there, another thought crossed her:

This was the ship I saw docked when we first rowed in....

She recalled now how she thought a small, sophisticated joyride voyager like that could have only belonged to the Admiral Charles Gallagher himself. She could feel a chill in her core as she stood there now, doubting herself. She had no way of knowing if this ship did belong to him. If it did and she unknowingly waved down a Gallagher Pirate, she'd put herself in immediate danger. She had to think of her options and weigh her risks.

A gruff voice interrupted:

"Can I help you?"

Freezing up, Anarchy's eye shot up at the distant call. Tens of paces down the hull, something starkly white hanged out of a gun port, replacing the muzzle of a cannon. The Ghost narrowed her gaze at what looked like a blanched mask. She didn't know if it was some pirate fashion or an unusual Pokemon. Just as she was about to frantically debate herself on how she should answer—if at all—she realized that her inquirer asked an actually helpful question, and in a helpful tone.

If they were a Gallagher Pirate, word would have already spread among them to lookout for certain Pokemon. It sounds like this one doesn't even know me, a— Well, she didn't quite know what species she was, herself. —A Ghost type. And well, I only wear the dress out of the bunch, too.

Anarchy crossed her arms. The nail driven through her cranium must've looked like some sort of monocle from the head-on angle, but the thought didn't cross her mind. Thankfully, she didn't cant her head when she called out, "Yes! Whose ship is this?"

There was a momentary pause. "This ship belongs to Captain Jon. Why do you wanna know?" The other 'mon was beginning to sound more wary.

Not Gallagher. "I need help, my friends and I! But I can't keep shouting like this! May we meet?"

Another pause. They were probably considering their options. "I can throw you a ladder, meet you up on the deck. No funny business."

"Don't worry!" With a big sweeping glance around the beach to make sure there were no other passing eyes, Anarchy gave herself a running start. She jumped into the air, and as if innate to a Ghost, she began to soar. As she twisted and twirled in the air towards the stranger, the faint pink lining of her own Psychic exertion became apparent over her body. Coming face-to-face with the masked Pokemon, she whispered through her brass teeth, "I'll just squeeze by right here."

The mask remained as impassive as ever as the 'mon moved back to make space, somewhat begrudgingly, but their tone grew sharper. "Flyin' maybe ain't funny business to you, but you ought to know that it ain't no small thing to invite a stranger onto your ship," she said bluntly. "No more powers."

"Well, I'll walk when I'm inside," cheeked the Ghost. In one motion, she glided in headfirst and graciously landed on her feet. She gave a salute as if to say all is well.

Now that Anarchy could get a closer look, she noticed that the other's mask—if it was a mask—seemed almost fused to the rest of the 'mon's body. The other 'mon reached up a gloved hand to lift up the goggles that had been covering their eyes. The 'mon's gaze scanned her up and down, lingering on her pins and whatever metal thing made up her left eye.

"...Well. What did you need help with?" the 'mon asked, obviously skipping over the elephant in the room.

Anarchy didn't notice. "Right, yes!" she hurried in rushed nerves. "My crew, we're castaways who washed up on this island. We need to get back to Liverte, where we come from. I'm up and about looking for anyone whose line crosses those ports, and has the space and the heart to let ten Pokemon on for the voyage. Oh, but we also pay." The last bit she quickly added, and she just as readily stipulated, "Well, not anyone in the crew since we're castaway, but the traveling doctor in this city, Doctor Keahi! She said she'll pay on our behalf if we can find someone fair.

"So how about it? Are you the captain of this here lovely ship?" Anarchy's eye wandered all over the artillery, drinking in the interior.

The masked 'mon blinked, before gesturing at themselves and their oil-streaked apron. "Do I look like a Captain Jon to you?" they asked wryly, continuing on before Anarchy had the chance to reply. "No, I'm just her engineer. I'd take you to see the captain, but how do I know this ain't some sort of trick? All I have right now is your word, and I don't know you for squat."

Anarchy shrugged. "All I have is my word. Truthfully, everything else has been taken from me." There was a distant look in her eye for a moment. After the brief pause, she asked, "What does Captain Jon look like?"

The 'mon looked at her considerately for a short while before finally sighing. "Well, it ain't like I don't know what it's like to wash up ashore with practically nothin'," they said, sounding almost friendly. "I'll take you to see him." As they spoke, they began to strip off the heavy apron, folding it up and stowing it away in a bag by the floor when they were done. The 'mon grabbed a large spanner that looked to be made up of solid metal and was almost as tall as they were, lifting it effortlessly onto one of their shoulders before grabbing a small lantern that was set up next to the cannon.

"Follow me," they said, jerking their head down the corridor and moving in that direction. Their boots thunked strangely against the wood as they began to walk, stepping over loose timber and strewn nails left over from the ongoing construction.

The 'mon cast a look back at the Ghost. "What's your name?"

"My name's Anarchy! Anarchy Anne!" Her brass teeth twisted into a broad grin as she crossed her arms. "I used to be a Navigator for a crew. What about you?"

"Name's Kayri," they said shortly. They both skirted around a giant wooden structure with a number of wooden spokes jutting from the center, the light from the hooded lantern throwing deep shadows over the walls. "What even happened to that crew of yours?"

As they walked, Anarchy recounted to Kayri her crew's entire ordeal, from their vessel out of Liverte ports, to the ramshackle raft that washed up on Kuai. She felt secure enough even to divulge about the whole situation with the Admiral, though she left out Gallagher's name and rank, just in case. If there was a bounty on her head, she didn't want to give anyone any ideas.

Throughout it all, the other 'mon kept silent and listened with an attentive ear. "That's quite a tale," they said when she was finally finished. The 'mon didn't sound completely disbelieving, but rather like they were filing the information away in their minds. "A storm out of nowhere. You sure you didn't just miss it somehow? It's dangerous and unpredictable out there. Wouldn't blame you."

Anarchy's smile faltered, and her stare grew sharp. "I couldn't miss a storm for miles of clear sky," was her retort. "I'm the best Navigator the guild put up, but you don't have to be any good to see if they're black clouds out in the sun."

"Ah, a craftsmon's pride." For the first time during their encounter, it looked like the other 'mon was smiling, though perhaps that was just a trick of the flickering light. "You know, there's been strange things happenin' all over the place. Somethin' must've gone wrong somewhere."

They made their way to a ladder that climbed up another level in the ship. "Strange things like that ghost storm?" She canted her head. "Have you braved through one, too?"

"Not a storm, no," the 'mon said. They popped the handle of the lantern in their mouth and climbed up the ladder. "But there's been things everywhere. Signs of wrath and chaos, or somethin' broken in the core of the world itself. Plagues, corruption... Some 'mon disagree, they say it's just natural, and that's a fair call." They almost sounded more like they were talking to themselves than addressing her, but then they blinked it away. "Still. Ain't nothin' I ever heard of that can explain the second sun that me'n the rest of the crew saw out in the waters."

"Second sun?" Anarchy's eyes lit up with awe and trepidation as she climbed after the mechanic. The masked 'mon held out their hand to help Anarchy up after themselves.

"It ain't like nothin' I'd ever seen before," they continued. "In the middle of the night, not even close to dawn, the second sun just lit up the whole sky. No sunrise or nothin'. Wasn't there one moment, and there it was the next."

The 'mon shook themselves out of whatever memory they were reliving and lifted their spanner off their shoulder and pointed it to a door just a few paces away. "That's our captain's quarters. I should probably introduce you so he ain't gonna think a stranger's just been wanderin' through his ship unattended," they suggested. Anarchy gave a firm nod and stayed by Kayri's side as they approached.
 
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