Chapter 1: Pirates, Whirlpools, and other sea-bound Phenomena

The sun was high in the midday sky as the waves lapped gently at the prow of the Tanuki-Go. The occasional school of fish darted past its dark oak frame, sometimes leaping from the water for a breath of fresh, unnecessary air before diving down once more to the deep, droplets of water dancing around them in merriment. The wind was soft; not inexistent, but not strong enough to entirely fill the ships cream-coloured sails, gently pulling the ship along the surface of the water, with the pirate flag of the Badger Kaizoku-dan fluttering lazily overhead.

The shape of the ship was a little unorthodox, though efficient; the stern was flat, although curving slightly at the top just before a white, wooden fence protruded upwards from it, preventing as many ship-goers as possible from falling overboard. The sides curved outwards gently, the centre of the ship wider than the stern, before curling around to a joined point at the prow, the lightly coloured keel visible in contrast to the dark wood of the frame, following the join of the sides all the way to the figurehead, rings of light and dark wood curving around to form the striped shape of a racoon's head.

The deck was split into three sections; the foremost of which spanned half the length of the ship, set slightly down from the sides, made of plain wooden planks. In the centre of this section, an inset circle lay, roughly 50ft across, its sloped sides stepped, giving an effect somewhat similar to a miniature coliseum. Finally, half way along the length of the ship, a wall jutted out at an angle, stepladders laying either side of a thick wooden door, allowing entrance to the cabins within the ship, and a heightened level from which the mast rose into the sky, and the wheel lolled gently this way and that.

On this particular day, the deck seemed somewhat barren; most of the crew were below-deck, except for two solitary crewmates. In the crow's nest, the form of a bulky, sleeping gorilla lay alone, wrapped around the tip of the mast, the sun's rays sinking into her black fur, eyes sealed shut beneath a drooping pink ribbon. Occasional, she would rub a weary hand over her face, pulling a lip down her face to check for any remaining scraps of food.

The only other crewmember visible on deck was Locke, the hammerhead shark Fishman, as he lay on the figurehead, legs drooping over the racoon's eyes, webbed feet yearning in vain for the water splashing beneath. His muscular arms were crossed over his toned chest, his dark grey skin lightened by the sun's rays, a pair of frayed denim jeans were the only cloths upon his body. His mouth was closed in a slight grimace, the eyes either side of his peculiarly shaped head half closed, his pupils staring down at the planks of the deck behind him.

However, this serene scene was not to remain for too long, as a nearby creak gave away the opening of the trap-door, lying in the middle of the arena. The vibrations of footsteps buzzed across the frame of the ship, each time more vigorous than the last. Locke growled silently, knowing even before he arrived which of his nakama was approaching.

"Hey, Buuuuuhddy!" came the voice of Arachna D Seth, soon to be followed by his face entering Locke's line of vision, goofily grinning as usually, and his black-tipped 

locks of scruffy white hair dangling haphazardly around his face. Laying flat against the deck, Seth's orange, open-chested shirt fell clumsily to the ground, his sleeve falling in such a way as to momentarily reveal the scar running down his forearm. The ring on a string around his neck slid across his chest, finding itself a fold of cloth to curl up in.

"Not now, Human," sneered Locke bitterly, "I'm not in the mood to tolerate your mindless optimism."
"…Do you need a hug?"
"No, I don't need a hug, you fucking moron. Just leave me be."
Rolling to the side, Seth moved swiftly until he reached the side of the ship, and propped an arm against the wooden wall to propel himself to a standing position (which, for someone who's easily 6'3", is easier said than done.)

"Well, something's obviously bugging ya, whatsup?" he said, his hand lazily scratching the scar on his arm as he turned to face the prone Fishman.
"It's nothing you'd understand, Human. And anyway, when I had frustration before I met you lot, I used to enjoy going for a swim."
Seth moved closer to Locke, his face pleading innocence as his voice rose in pitch by a few notes.
"Are you still going on about that? It's not my fault; all I did was feed you that swirly looking fruit. You can't exactly blame me if you gave up swimming after that."
"It's because of that fruit that I can't swim anymore, you moron."
"…Dude, you're only 'sposed to wait an hour…"

This last comment was the straw that broke the camel's back, an already foul-tempered Fishman not taking this kind of mindless nonsense from the inferior species. Without breaking face, one of Locke's massive arms whipped up from his torso, a webbed hand grabbing Seth's slim- yet muscular- arm. Realising his impending situation, the boy could do little more than whimper as Locke's arm snapped forwards, pulling the First Mate headfirst over the side of the ship. Through little more than battle instinct, however, Seth's arm immediately reached out for a graspable object; the only thing it found was the thick-skinned grey ankle which dangled overboard.

Without time to realise what was happening, Seth dropped feet-first into the ocean, local fish scattering as the foreign body entered the water, soon to be joined by the flailing body of a Fishman, unwillingly dragged under the ocean's surface, attempting to stroke his arms and legs in a suitable fashion before his energy was drained, and his limbs fell weak. Regaining his composure after having been initially thrown into the water, Seth soon dove down and grabbed the Fishman by the haunches; although it was a struggle, the Fishman easily weighing half a dozen stones more than him, he managed to pull them both to the thick rope net that hung over the starboard side of the ship.

Once above water, Locke's energy flushed back into his body as if a plug was removed from his head, and the power was allowed to flow back into his being. Spitting a phlegm-filled wad of water back into the salty ocean, his eyes focussed on the scrawny boy in front of him.
"Rest assured, Arachna D Seth. One day, I will kill you."



•••

The interior of the Tanuki-Go was somewhat simple; the walls were of a simple cream colour, similar to that of the lighter wood outside, with darker, polished boards lining the floor. In the centre of this room lay a long table, stools lined up evenly along each side, between two hatches linking this mess hall to a surrounding kitchen area, which surrounded the room in a horseshoe shape. At one end of the hall lay the hefty, wooden door which led out onto the deck. At the other sat Captain Horatio Badger.

Badger was slumped back in a large, ornate looking chair, red cushions padding out its rough, natural surface. His burly form fitted neatly in the chair, as if it was crafted to suit his image, his navy blue captain's jacket sitting neatly on his shoulders, golden tassels and trinkets dangling loosely over its lapels and shoulders. Beneath it, his tattered white shirt clung to his muscular chest, tears and rips in the fabric of it and his blue trousers which ended in shreds, memorabilia from his former life which he would never discard.

To the left of his chair, a hatch-doorway hung open, a cord of rope tied tightly to a peg on the wall, keeping the stairway to the lower levels open. From below, Badger could hear the occasional splash and squeal as his cartographer worked on his latest piece, but one splash caught his ear more than others; the splash of water hitting the side of the ship, and the disgruntled sound of an angry Fishman.
"Seth, you moron…" he muttered to himself, before returning his attention to the task at hand. His eyes scanned from the wall over to the table below his chair, his chin resting naturally on his hand, fingers running through the black-and-white striped beard which melded seamlessly with his rugged, wild head of hair.

His eyes passed back and forth over four pieces of browning paper; three bounty posters, and an arcane map. Three familiar faces peered out of the paper at him, and one unfamiliar country lay in waiting. Badger gently stroked the hair of his beard, deep in thought. Combined, the crew now had a bounty of just over B210,000,000; this would surely attract money-hungry morons who thought such a total was unbefitting of its holders. Although they weren't exactly in a hurry, they couldn't waste time dealing with shitty bounty hunter after shitty bounty hunter.

His train of thought wouldn't be allowed to fully progress to the station, however, before a rumbling sound of footsteps came from below; clattering as paintbrushes hit the ground, tearing sounds of canvas being ripped from their holdings. A few moments later, the frail form of Vince Von Monasso stumbled up through the open hatchway, splatters of dark purple ink dirtying his pale skin and rich blond locks; although these were still immaculately kept. His wiry fingers were wrapped around various canvases; one or two paint-covered brushes still resting between his knuckles. His usual baggy, blue jacket was hanging from his body, the collar upturned, shadowing his neck. The jacket itself was still quite neat, contrasting heavily with the beige trousers which were now a colour more similar to a patchwork elephant, dabs and drabs of different colours splashed hither and dither about them.

"Finished it, sir!" he said, his voice effeminate and excitable; a key tool to discerning how successful his artwork had been. With a brief, confused look, Badger glanced at 

his crewmate, then to the map lying on the table.
"But, I've had the original all this time." He queried; wondering how Vince had managed to copy the map without looking at it during the entirety of his work.
"Oh, no need to worry about little facts such as vision, when one is creating artistic genius! I simply plucked the images from my mind."
For once, Badger was rather impressed. His knowledge of art was somewhat lacking, but this skill seemed to interest him; it was certainly nothing Vince had displayed in the past.
"Alright; let's have a look-see!" Badger said, wrapping the fingers of his right hand around a tankard of ale whilst reaching out for Vince's map replica with the left.

Shuffling through the different pieces in his grasp, Vince finally pulled out the one he needed, the shimmering white paper giving off a completely different image than the dusty, decaying map on the desk. Badger's lips wrapped around the edge of his tankard as he took a sip of his drink, before taking the paper from Vince's hand and turning it, so that he could behold the image. No more than a moment later, a shower of ale and spittle burst from his mouth, covering map and mapmaker alike. Vince visually grimaced as the liquid sprayed forth; more, however, at the damage of his artwork than his shirt.

The map was as dissimilar to the original as the paper; where the island displayed on the original had a uniform, natural feel to it, this picture seemed like something more from a bad dream. Chunks of land had been lifted and rearranged, some rotated, to make something which looked more like a bear trap than an island. Some areas, instead of their simply representative browns and blues, were coloured red, purple, and yellow, colours completely unhelpful in a map of a country. The word "Oz" however was ornately crafted, the letters curling and curving magnificently, directly across the middle of the page.

"What the hell is this?! I asked you for a map, not a fucking Picasso!"
"What was that, sir?" Vince's voice said, his tone somewhat lowered in a near threatening growl.
"I said I need a map, not a Picasso, you dullard!"
Vince's face lightened almost immeasurably at this comment.
"Oh, good. I thought you said Pycisso; I would be distraught if you were to mistake my muse, Captain."

Without thinking twice, Badger burst from his seat, his left hand grabbing Vince by the collar (crushing his 'artwork' in the process, the act of which made the artist audibly squeak), and the right slamming his tankard on the table end, and grabbing the original map. Thrusting the map into Vince's grasp, making various artworks and supplies fall dramatically to the ground, before pulling the artist's face close to his own.

"I expect you to do it properly this time, and if I even detect an intention to make it artsy, I'll goddamn force you to keep Boboette company in her alone-time!"
With a shrill squeal of "Yes, Cap'n!", Vince was sent flying clumsily down the stairwell by a boot from his captain's foot. Letting out a heavy sigh, Badger reclaimed his ale and took another hefty sip.

"Uhh, Cap'n?" came the muffled voice of his First Mate from the deck, the sound 

suppressed by the thick wood.
"What?" came Badger's curt reply.
"You know those things, um, when the water swirls round and round in circles and stuff?"
"A whirlpool, Seth, yes?"
"Yeaaaah… should we be in one of them right now?"

•••

When Badger threw the door open, causing a clatter of wood on wood from beside him, the view of the deck was quite dissimilar from that of mere moments before. Boboette had awoken from her doze in the Crow's Nest, and had leapt down from the mast, grabbing one of the oars which were now leaning against the side of the ship in her leathery palms. Locke had already grabbed the other, rowing in the direction most beneficial to escaping the torrent of water slowly pulling the ship to a singularity of water. Seth, at a lack of knowledge on how to deal with this situation, was darting to and fro in small circles across the deck, eyes pleading for some sort of useful command from his captain.

Calmly assessing the situation, Badger turned to his crewmates.
"Locke, Boboette, keep the ship from going under. Seth, go get the sails up; this wind isn't beneficial to us, it'll only slow down our escape. We need to slingshot ourselves out of the whirlpools grip!"
"Yessir!" came the reply from Seth, darting immediately to the stepladder and beginning to scale the mast.

Badger moved to assist his crew, as another figure appeared upon the scene, walking lazily from the doorway, unaware of the current severity of the situation.
"What's happening, boys?" came Mujina's inquisitive tone, both Badger and Seth looking to behold her, before disaster struck.

A strong gust of wind blew overhead, catching perfectly in the sails and causing a sudden jarring in the ship's movement. Badger managed to steady himself immediately; Seth fell cleanly off the mast and hit the surrounding fence with a crack. And while Locke and Boboette had the oars to support their weight in the movement, Mujina was not so lucky. Losing her footing, she stumbled clumsily to the side of the ship, lifting slightly off the ground so that her shin caught the wooden fencing, before she plummeted into the perilous waters below.

"Mujina!!" cried Badger and Seth in unison, before turning their respective heads, their eyes meeting across the deck. Before realising what was happening, another event unfolded, as Locke dropped his oar and placed one foot upon the side of the ship.
"I got 'er!" he grinned, his Fishman instincts taking a higher priority than his common logic as he pushed his foot down, launching into an arc high into the sky before completing his beautiful, but inevitably woeful, dive beneath the waves.


"That idiot!" Badger cried, his eyes moving from Locke back to Seth as he saw his first mate about to follow suit.
"Don't you DARE!" Badger shouted, Seth seemingly locked in place under his captain's command, "We need you here, Seth, you worry about my daughter later!"
His face filled with unease, Seth lingered for a moment before reluctantly dragging himself away from the edge of the ship, leaping from the higher level to take up Locke's slack.

Damnit, Badger thought, this isn't good. We'll just have to hope we get the Devil's luck…
"Hold tight, men; We're going under!"

At the other side of the whirlpool, a Sea Cow flailed helplessly in the whirlpool, its cry catching the ears of the frantic crew. As the ship span slowly and slowly towards oblivion, a cry of "Shotgun" came from the voice of Seth.
"You can't call Shotgun on a goddamn sea co--"
"SHOTGUN!"
"Just row, damnit!"