I tucked the jerky into my oversized waistband, feeling the salt-cured meat press against my hip. "Thanks, Cookie!" I called out, already half-way out the door.
"Don't thank me, just don't get stepped on!" he hollered back over the sizzle of a frying pan. "And tell Garp if he wants a dipping sauce, he can come down here and squeeze the lemons himself!"
I sprinted back through the narrow corridors, the plastic packaging bristling and crinkling loudly in my arms. I passed the hold and started the climb back up the steep wooden stairs.
As I neared the upper deck hatch, the sounds changed. The rhythmic splashing of the waves was replaced with rhythmic footsteps. I popped my head out of the hatch, the bright West Blue sunlight blinding me for a second.
I stayed low, scurrying across the deck toward the front where the 'Dog' figurehead stood. Garp hadn't moved an inch, but his posture was different now, yet the jovial mood remained.
"Ah! The reinforcements have arrived!" Garp bellowed as he spotted me. I hurriedly pressed the crinkling plastic packs into his palm, the wooden patches scraping against his skin.
RIP.
He didn't even look for the opening; he just shredded the plastic with a flick of his wrist and started shoveling the crackers into his mouth. "Not bad, kid! Still crunchy! Bogard, you want some? Helps with the nerves!"
Bogard didn't even glance at the offered snack. He remained as still as a statue, his eyes narrowed at the horizon where the jagged peaks of God Valley were beginning to tower over the ship. "I'll pass, Vice-Admiral. My nerves are perfectly fine. It's the structural integrity of this ship I'm worried about."
Garp let out another thunderous laugh, spraying a few more crumbs. "Bwahahaha! Have a little faith, Bogard! This beauty can handle a lot!"
I stood there for a second, mesmerized by how calm they were.
"Look at that," Garp muttered, his voice dropping an octave, though he kept chewing. He pointed toward the center of the island.
I followed the line of his thick, scarred finger. My mind already starting to panic.
On the far side of the island, where the main port lay, the sky was no longer blue. It was a bruised, sickly charcoal, choked by massive plumes of oily smoke. Even from this distance, I could see the flashes of light. Not from the sun reflecting off windows, but the glare of constant explosions and fire.
The Saber of Xebec was docked there, looking like a jagged black splinter driven into the heart of the island.
"Those monsters," Bogard whispered, his voice uncharacteristically thin. He had pulled a small pair of binoculars from his coat. "They aren't just seizing the port. They're... they're erasing it."
"It's a mess," Garp muttered, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. "That's not Xebec's style. He's a monster, but he's not a mindless butcher."
Bogard lowered his binoculars, his expression grim. "The Rocks Pirates... they aren't a crew anymore. They're just a pack of wild dogs that have snapped their leashes."
I looked past Garp's shoulder, and my heart nearly stopped. Parallel to our own battleship, another vessel was cutting through the southern shoals. Its crimson sails snapped in the gale, and its golden figurehead gleamed like a sun, the Oro Jackson.