Gale sat on a toppled, moss-covered pillar, one leg lazily dangling while the other was propped up beneath his arm. Crumbling ruins surrounded him—old archways twisted with vines, shattered stone faces long forgotten by history.
It would've been a peaceful place… if not for the man tied up at his feet twitching like he was being punished by the gods.
"And then—get this—the guy looks me dead in the eye and says, 'You think you're scary?' Right? So I told him, 'No, I know I'm scary. But you're more like… disappointingly punchable.'"
The bound man gave another sharp shudder. "Please… I'll do anything—just shut up—"
But Gale wasn't done. Oh, he was just getting to the good part.
"Now, normally I'd take that as a compliment, but the way he said it? Like he thought I was bluffing? Tch. I've met Sea Kings with more sense of self-preservation than you people. Honestly, if I ever decide to start a podcast, I'll call it Punch First, Questions Never. What do you think?"
The man, tall and lanky with a face only a banana could love, looked half-dead already. His hair stuck up like a cracked acorn, and his twitchy hands made him look less like a man and more like a caffeinated monkey.
Just then, soft footsteps crunched over broken stone.
Ren stepped into view, his black clothes nearly blending with the shadows. He had that same casual stillness about him, the calm you find in the eye of a storm—or the guy who's about to kill you politely.
He looked down at the sorry soul on the ground and raised an eyebrow beneath his oni mask.
"Who is it this time?" he asked, voice flat but with the faintest sigh of sympathy.
Gale shrugged, tossing a pebble into the air and catching it again. "Didn't bother to ask. Something about the Nicotine Mandrills? Or maybe Tea Gorillas? Look, all I know is his gang was squatting in Area 65, screaming about territory or beans or something. Same story as always."
Ren tilted his head. "The coffee Monkeys."
"Sure, why not," Gale said with a snort. "Their name's not gonna matter when they're scrubbing the prison floors clean with a toothbrush anyway."
The monkey-man on the ground groaned. "I thought the name was cool…"
Gale gave him a casual kick. "No one cares, Beanboy."
Ren leaned down and hoisted the man over his shoulder like a sack of misused potatoes. He looked at Gale again. "The rest of his gang?"
"Waiting for you in 65. Shouldn't give you trouble. I gave them a show—smashed their leader's face into a wall, broke his favorite mug, and made them watch him get tied up with banana-colored rope. That kind of thing sticks with people."
Ren grunted. "You do love your theatrics."
Gale grinned. "What can I say? Fear's a better recruiter than charisma."
Ren adjusted the unconscious gang leader and turned to leave. "I'll take him in, collect the bounty, then make the rest sign up with the rest. That should bring them up to... what, five gangs now?"
"Six, if you count the Inkfish Posse. Though personally, I think they're more of a crustacean-themed poetry club."
Ren stopped, clearly unsure if Gale was joking. Then again, Gale wasn't sure either.
"What about you?" Ren asked over his shoulder. "Going after another group?"
Gale let out a long, dramatic sigh and flopped back onto the pillar, arms behind his head. "Tempting, but I should probably head back to the marine branch before they start tattling to HQ again about how I 'abandoned my duties' or 'didn't wait the mandatory two days before bedding the secretary' or whatever they're mad about this week."
Ren was already walking away. "You do that."
"Though…" Gale sat up with a stretch, "I might swing by Shakky's Bar first. See if she's cooked up any more secret plans or conspiracy threads for me to unravel. Maybe she finally figured out who stole the bar's last bottle of rum. Spoiler: it was me."
Ren didn't respond—just raised a hand in what might've been a wave and disappeared between the broken pillars and crooked walls.
Gale looked down at the ruins, then at the clouds above. "Six gangs down… a whole lotta scum to go."
He stood up, stretched again with a yawn, and muttered, "Yeah. I could go for a drink."
...
The bell above the door to Shakky's Rip-Off Bar gave a half-hearted jingle as Gale pushed it open with the back of his hand. He stepped inside, blinking at the dim lighting and the silence that met him like a suspicious bouncer. No haze of cigarette smoke.
No clink of glasses. No lazy jazz from that record Shakky always swore she'd replace and never did.
"…Huh."
He scratched the back of his head, gaze sweeping the empty bar. Not a soul in sight. The tables were untouched, save for a single overturned ashtray and the ever-present scent of alcohol that clung to the place like a second skin. Even the bar counter looked... lonely.
"Shakky?" he called out, peeking around. No answer.
With a sigh, Gale's eyes landed on the battered guitar leaning against the wall just below the shuttered window.
It had definitely seen better days—two strings were mismatched, the neck had a bite mark (he really hoped that was a bite mark), and there was a piece of chewing gum stuck to the headstock like a badge of honor.
"Might as well while I wait..." he muttered, walking over and picking it up. He settled onto a stool, gave the strings a quick tune (or what passed for it), and let his fingers glide over the wood like he remembered how to play.
A soft, almost hesitant chord rang out.
And then he started humming.
Low at first, but steady. He'd heard the tune somewhere before—probably from a drunken sailor who cried into his soup. Or maybe he made it up. He wasn't sure anymore.
"I've been roaming all my life
And now I've found a lady wife
I'm staying right here..."
"Oh, I won't go sailing anymore
I won't obey the ocean's call
I'm staying right here..."
He paused mid-verse, fingers hovering over the strings. A sound—soft, unmistakable—cut through the quiet.
The glug of liquid pouring.
Gale's head slowly turned, eyes narrowing toward the bar counter.
There, seated like he owned the place (and maybe, spiritually, he did), was a man with long white hair, round glasses, and a relaxed posture that said I've seen enough to not be impressed by you, kid.
The man took a casual sip from the now-full glass of amber liquid in his hand, smacked his lips, and chuckled. "You're way too young to be singing something like that, boy."
Gale smiled faintly, fingers still resting on the guitar's strings as they gave a soft twang under his palm.
"It's just a song I like," he said, glancing toward the half-full glass in Rayleigh's hand. "Then again... as long as the audience relates to it, that's enough. Doesn't have to be about the guy singing it."
Rayleigh took another slow sip, gaze half-lidded behind his glasses. "And you think I relate to it?"
Gale shrugged. "I doubt anyone would relate to it more than the retired vice-captain of the Pirate King."
There was a brief silence, like the room itself held its breath. Rayleigh raised a brow, just a little.
"So you recognize me?"
"Yeah." Gale's reply was simple, almost lazy.
Rayleigh tilted his glass slightly in amusement. "And?"
"And what?" Gale grinned coldly. "You expect me to ask for a handshake? An autograph?"
He smirked, deepening as he leaned forward with mock sincerity.
"Because if that's what you think, let me tell you something, Mr—"
But then, his voice cut off.
The grin faded.
Something heavy slipped into his face—just for a second. Like a crack in the floor letting the darkness peek through. He didn't finish the sentence.
Rayleigh's smile didn't fade. If anything, it grew wider, the old man's interest sharpening like a whetstone grazing steel.
"Oh?" he said, softly. "Do tell."
Gale looked up at him again, eyes narrowing dangerously.
Then, just as quickly, the grin came back like a curtain being drawn over a window.
"I actually would," he said brightly. "It's on my bucket list. Right between 'ride a sea king' and 'eat something I can't pronounce.'"
Rayleigh stared at him, glass halfway to his mouth.
Then he chuckled. Then he laughed.
A full, deep, genuine laugh that echoed off the empty bottles and dusty shelves.
"You remind me of an old friend," Rayleigh said, shaking his head. "He used to make jokes like that, too. Could never tell if he was deflecting or just screwing with you."
"Why not both?" Gale said, shrugging. "It's a great survival tactic."
Rayleigh took another sip, then set the glass down with a faint clink.
"Doesn't matter," he murmured. "Still… I expected you to draw your sword by now."
Gale blinked. "Draw my sword? Why? I just sat down."
"Most marines would've at least made a scene," Rayleigh said, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. "Tried to arrest me. Or fainted. You'd be surprised how many faint."
"Well," Gale leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head, "most marines haven't been force-fed six hundred pages of accumulated Sabaody paperwork. I'm dead inside."
Rayleigh's shoulders shook again with that same warm, gravel-edged laugh.
"You're funny, kid," he said, wiping a finger beneath his glasses. "Even more interesting than Shakky suggested."
Gale puffed out his chest with mock pride. "Thanks. I try. Really, I do. But I'm also severely underpaid, so if you find me amusing, how about you cough up some cash? I accept coin, paper notes, or questionable heirlooms."
Rayleigh chuckled, shaking his head like a man who'd heard that one before—possibly from someone swinging a cutlass.
"Nothing's free in this world, after all. Not even a laugh," he said, voice low and amused. "But… I don't have any money on me."
"Of course you don't," Gale muttered, shooting a look at the ceiling like it owed him something. "Pirate legend, probably buried treasure by the ton, but can't spare a coin for the sad, overworked marine."
Rayleigh drained the last of his glass and set it down with a satisfied sigh. Then he grinned.
"Tell you what. How about I teach you a few things… and we'll call it even?"
Gale's brain short-circuited for a second. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Wait. Wait.
Rayleigh—as in Dark King Silvers Rayleigh—just offered to teach him a few things?
He nodded. Then nodded again. Then nodded a third time like his neck was trying to convince the rest of him it wasn't hallucinating.
"Sounds like a deal... say, do you happen to be in need of a personal jester by any chance?" he said, scrambling to find words that wouldn't betray how giddy he suddenly felt.
Rayleigh stood, stretching slightly as he moved toward the door with the unhurried grace of a man who'd dodged cannonballs in his sleep.
"Move your feet, funny boy," he said over his shoulder. "Before I change my mind."
Gale didn't need to be told twice.
He set the guitar down gently—partly out of respect, partly out of fear it might actually be cursed—then jogged after Rayleigh, every part of him buzzing with that half-panicked, half-thrilled feeling you only got when life yanked you off script and threw you into a brand new chapter.
He was about to be trained by the Silvers Rayleigh.
And all it cost him was a song and a couple bad jokes.
Best damn deal he'd ever made.
...
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