The journey back through the jungle felt lighter, despite the weight of the three barrels of glowing resin. The strange, gold-tinged light from within the clay cast shifting, warm patterns on the surrounding foliage, pushing back the perpetual twilight. Jelly led the way, a bouncing blue scout, his form occasionally elongating to slorp an unlucky mosquito from the air with happy, gurgling sounds.
Vesta provided the soundtrack, Mikasi having shifted back into a lute. She wove a cheerful, rambling tune about their adventure.
🎵
"Through the jungle so deep, with the trees tall and grand,
We made friends with the little folk of this strange land!
We danced and we drank, and we outsmarted a rule..."
🎵
Galit and Atlas carried the barrels between them, Atlas hefting the bulk of the weight with ease while Galit's long neck swiveled, constantly monitoring their path. "My first order of business," Jannali announced, swatting a vine away from her face, "is finding a bathhouse. I feel like I've been rolled in compost and then hugged by a wet Wookie."
Eliane's eyes lit up. "A bath! Oh, that sounds so nice! With real soap!"
Vesta, ever adaptable, changed her song mid-verse.
🎵
"The adventure was grand, but now we all smell,
Like a swamp and old rum, a truly foul spell!
So we'll find a hot bath and we'll wash all the grime..."
🎵
"DUCK!"
Marya's voice wasn't a shout, but a sharp, clear command that cut through the music and chatter. It was the only warning they got before the air was filled with the sinister whisssh of incoming arrows. They rained down from the canopy, striking through Marya's form as she dissolved into a cloud of mist, her leather jacket fluttering empty to the ground. The rest of the crew hit the dirt, scrambling behind thick baobab roots.
A voice, tight with fury, echoed from the trees. "She's a devil! Fire again!"
The mist coalesced back into Marya, Eternal Eclipse already in her hand. As a second volley descended, she didn't parry; she simply swung the massive obsidian blade in a wide, contemptuous arc. A wave of pure, invisible Haki erupted from it, slamming into the arrows and scattering them like twigs in a hurricane, splintering them against the trees.
That was all the opening the fighters needed. Jannali, Atlas, and Galit exploded from their cover. Jannali moved like a shadow, her spear, Anhur's Whisper, extending as she closed the distance on a bowman trying to nock another arrow. She had him cornered against a tree in seconds, the sea-stone tip of her spear a hair's breadth from his throat.
"What the hell?" she snarled. "Who are you?"
The man, dressed in refined but practical linen garments, glared back with pure hatred. "We are the Andriana Guard! And you are stealing the Queen's resin on a TUESDAY!"
Jannali's fierce expression melted into one of utter, profound bafflement. "You're having a go at me," she breathed. "You're actually having a go at me over the day of the week?"
Around them, other guards yelped and fled as Atlas's chui maces crackled with energy and Galit's whips snapped through the air, creating a defensive web. With a grunt of impatience, Atlas slammed a fist into the ground. A web of blue lightning earthward, and the man Jannali had cornered lit up like a festival lantern, shuddered violently, and collapsed into an unconscious heap.
Everyone regrouped around Marya, who stood solid once more, Eternal Eclipse resting on her shoulder. Vesta peeked out from behind a tree.
🎵
"The fighting was brief, the enemies scattered,
Our victory by cleverness and power was flattered!"
🎵
Jelly let out a loud, rumbling burp, the half-digested remains of a large butterfly briefly visible in his chest before dissolving. Jannali rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder they stayed in her head.
Marya's gaze was on Jannali. "Get anything?"
Jannali nodded, still looking deeply confused by the universe. "Yeah. They said they're with the Andriana Guard and we're... stealing the queen's resin on a Tuesday."
Galit looked as if he'd been told the sky was made of soup. "What is with this island and Tuesday? It's a day! It's not a moral concept!"
Atlas hefted his barrel again, the glow highlighting the grim set of his jaw. "It doesn't matter. We should hurry and get out of here before they come back with reinforcements. The sooner our ship is coated, the sooner we can get the hell off this calendar-obsessed rock."
Marya gave a single, sharp nod. "Agreed. Let's go."
Eliane, brushing dirt from her chef's jacket, looked up with a hopeful pout. "Do you think we will still have time for a bath?"
Jannali let out a short, sharp laugh, the tension bleeding away. "Yeah, little chef. That resin will take three days to be applied and set. I think we can squeeze in a wash."
*****
The walk to the Vice Admiral's office was a study in contrasts. Captain Kai Sullivan moved with a tense, humming energy, his footsteps a rapid tap-tap-tap on the polished obsidian floor. Behind him, Kuro glided, his seastone cuffs seeming like a minor fashion inconvenience rather than restraints. The air grew warmer, thick with the scent of expensive cigar smoke and the underlying, sulfurous breath of the volcano.
Kai stopped before a heavy door of reinforced tropical hardwood, knocked twice, and stood rigidly at attention.
"Enter." The voice from within was like grinding stone.
Kai swung the door open. Vice Admiral Venus Harlow's office was a bunker disguised with luxury. One wall was raw, volcanic rock, while the others were lined with maps and bookshelves. Harlow herself was a statue of coiled aggression, her chair creaking as she leaned back, pulling a long, dark cigar from her lips. A thin plume of smoke wreathed her styled blond hair.
"I have Kuro of the—" Kai began.
"Yes, yes, bring him in," Harlow cut him off with a flick of her wrist, her eyes, cold and sharp, fixed on Kuro.
Kai stepped aside. When he lingered at the threshold, unsure, Harlow's gaze snapped to him. "That will be all. Post someone at the door to escort him after our conversation." The dismissal was absolute. Kai nodded once and pulled the door shut, leaving Kuro alone with the volcano's heart.
Kuro stood calmly before the massive desk as Harlow sat back, crossing her legs. The mechanical whir of her prosthetic was barely audible. She blew a slow, deliberate plume of smoke toward the ceiling.
"Captain Kuro of the Black Cat Pirates," she began, her voice deceptively smooth. "It appears you have returned from the dead. Care to explain yourself, and why you are here on my base?"
Kuro's lips curved into a faint, infuriating smirk. "I don't think I do."
Harlow's jaw tightened. She tapped the ash from her cigar into a heavy crystal ashtray with a sharp tink. "You do understand that since you are, officially, a dead man, that gives me extensive... latitude regarding your treatment? Who are the people you're traveling with? Are you reforming the Black Cat Pirates? What can you tell me about that ship?"
Kuro sighed, as if bored by a tedious subordinate. He adjusted his cracked glasses with his cuffed hands. "Is this the extent to which your meager mind can—"
A frantic knocking at the door cut him off.
Harlow's composure cracked. "What is it?" she snarled.
Captain Nuri Evander's voice, muffled and nervous, filtered through the wood. "Sorry to disturb you, ma'am! But Commander Alistair has requested an audience with the prisoners! He says he can't get you a status report without—"
The chair screeched violently against the floor as Harlow launched herself to her feet. She stomped to the door, yanked it open, and glared down at a visibly trembling Nuri, who was gripping his steel bat like a security blanket.
"TELL THAT BUFFOON," she roared, her voice echoing down the corridor, "THAT HE HAD BETTER HAVE THAT REPORT ON MY DESK BY THE END OF THE DAY OR I'LL PERSONALLY USE HIS PRECIOUS CANE FOR FIREWOOD!"
Nuri nodded so vigorously his messy red hair bounced. "Yes, ma'am! So, does that mean... about the prisoners...?"
Harlow's face shaded toward a dangerous crimson. "GET IT DONE!"
Nuri squeaked a final "Yes, ma'am!" and scurried away like a startled crab.
Harlow slammed the door shut, the framed maps on the wall rattling. She turned her blazing fury back on Kuro, who had watched the entire exchange with an expression of detached amusement.
"Good help is so hard to find these days," Kuro commented mildly.
"Stop talking," Harlow seethed, pointing at him with her smoldering cigar, "and start answering my questions."
Kuro blinked, the picture of innocence. "It will be a challenge to answer questions without talking."
Harlow dropped back into her chair, the impact jarring the desk. She leaned forward, her eyes narrowed into slits, the ghost of Aric Thorne and the ache of her lost leg fueling her rage. "HOW," she demanded, the word a low, venomous hiss, "ARE YOU STILL ALIVE?"
The question hung in the smoky air, a direct challenge. Kuro merely adjusted his cuffs again, the faint click of the seastone links the only sound as he decided how much of his intricate, multi-layered game to reveal. The dead pirate and the furious Admiral were locked in a silent battle of wills, the stakes of which only one of them fully understood.
---
The heavy door to the holding block groaned open, interrupting the cellblock's stagnant silence. In marched Commander Alistair Reginald Finch, a whirlwind of tailored navy fabric and unwarranted confidence. He whistled a jaunty, off-key tune, twirling a large key ring around his index finger with a theatrical flair that seemed to suck all the anxiety out of the air and replace it with bewildering pomposity.
The occupants of the four cells looked up. Charlie paused his frantic pacing, his scholarly mind trying to categorize this new specimen. Ember blinked sleepily from her bench, undisturbed. Bianca stretched like a cat, and then her eyes went wide. Aurélie rose from her meditative stance with the grace of a drawn blade, a single locust choosing that moment to alight on her shoulder as if reporting for duty.
Bianca jumped to her feet, rushing to the bars. "Profe—!" she began, before catching herself. She disguised the slip with a sudden, violent sneeze that shook her entire frame. "Achoo!"
Commander Finch cut her a sharp, warning look before turning his attention to the group, striking a pose. "Well, I dare say, you scoundrels! I demand you hand over all pertinent information regarding that unorthodox vessel of yours! Its secrets will not remain hidden from the Marine Corps!"
Aurélie's lips curled into a faint, knowing smirk. "Sir," she said, her voice a low counterpoint to his bluster, "there are only so many shades of toast one can see before the bread turns to charcoal."
Finch's composure wavered for a split second; a chuckle threatened to escape before he strangled it into a dignified throat-clearing. "I do say, madam, toast has nothing to do with it!" He stepped closer to her cell, placing his hands on the bars in a gesture of false intimacy. "The design of your vessel is quite... unorthodox!"
As he spoke, Aurélie's hand moved with a ghost's subtlety, her fingers brushing against his. When she withdrew her hand, the key to her cell was no longer on his ring, but nestled in her palm.
Finch's eyes darted to Bianca, his voice dropping into what he clearly believed was a compelling tone. "Why, only a true genius could have possibly figured out how to make that contraption function!" Bianca blushed, a mix of pride and confusion at the bizarre compliment.
"And I dare say," Finch announced, straightening up and addressing the room, "there are no such people of that caliber amongst common pirates!"
Charlie, unable to help himself, cleared his throat. "To assume that genius is a quality limited solely to those in a sanctioned uniform is a fallacious—" He stopped mid-sentence, his words withering under the simultaneous, deadly glares from both Aurélie and Bianca.
Ember, who had been watching the entire performance with sleepy curiosity, finally spoke. "Mister," she said, tilting her head. "You talk funny."
Commander Finch cleared his throat again, a man desperately trying to keep a sinking ship afloat with sheer bravado. "Young lady, I am here for information, not a critique of my oratory skills!" He then looked down at his immaculately polished boots and announced, "Good heavens, my shoelace has come untied!"
With a sigh of put-upon inconvenience, he knelt. In the same moment, Aurélie knelt as well, as if to examine something on the floor of her cell. Their faces were now level, separated only by the bars.
"The vessel is in the impound dock," Finch whispered, his lips barely moving, the cheerful whistle replaced by a razor-sharp murmur. "Shift change in one hour. That's your window."
"We thought you were lost to us when communications ceased," he continued.
"We were, for a moment," Aurélie whispered back. "As soon as I can, I will transmit a full—"
"No need," Finch cut her off. "I will convey your status. We know where your target is. You need to continue the mission. The coordinates are already input into the submarine's navigation system."
Aurélie's eyes widened a fraction, the most surprise she had shown since their arrival. "How? Where?"
"No time," Finch hissed, his eyes darting towards the door. "Get caught up later. Right now, you just need to keep moving."
He stood up abruptly, brushing his knees. Aurélie rose with him, giving a single, almost imperceptible nod.
"So!" Finch boomed, resuming his charade. "You have no information to add or convey, even though you are fully aware of the consequences?"
Bianca, now fully in on the act, let out a short, mocking laugh. "We will never reveal our secrets!"
Commander Finch nodded, a picture of stern disappointment. "If that is how you feel about it, then! We have nothing further to discuss!" He spun on his polished heels with a flourish and marched out of the holding block, whistling his jaunty tune once more and twirling a key ring that was now, notably, one key lighter. The door slammed shut, leaving the four agents in a silence that now buzzed with possibility.
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