East Blue, 6 years after Gol D. Roger's execution
Six months had slipped by since Kuro's split from Don Krieg's crew to form the Black Cat Pirates. My place among them felt like a puzzle piece forced into the wrong slot. I wasn't cut out for the pirate life, yet here I was, in the thick of it.
Kuro's combat skills grew sharper, and I learned through observation. During nights, when the ship was quiet, I trained alone, determined to keep up and survive. My bounty had surged to 500,000.00 berries, a mocking reflection of my incongruous presence among the pirates.
The six months we spent sailing the East Blue were a blur of monotonous routines and lingering discontent. The daily grind felt like a weight around my neck, dragging me deeper into a life I never asked for.
Mornings began with the same symphony of creaking wood and shouted commands. Kuro's orders dictated our actions as we scurried to hoist sails and perform the endless list of tasks required to keep the ship afloat. The relentless repetition of it all chipped away at any semblance of excitement.
My role as the de facto cook in the galley was a constant reminder of my newfound responsibilities. The smell of food mingled with the forced camaraderie, as laughter and chatter filled the space while I mechanically prepared meals. Their contentment stung; their easy acceptance of this life was a reminder of how much I despised it.
Visits to islands were a temporary respite from the suffocating routine, yet they offered no solace. At the very least, it usually wasn't carnage like Krieg had strived for.
Perhaps a month into our new adventure, we attacked our first town. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a dim, silvery glow upon the quiet port town. Captain Kuro and a small part of the crew, myself included, moved with calculated precision through the shadows, our footsteps soft against the cobblestone streets. It was a fitting backdrop for a crew called the Black Cat Pirates.
Kuro, his sharp intellect and cruelty hidden behind a calm façade, led the way with a map in hand. He had carefully plotted our route, exploiting the knowledge he'd gleaned from hours spent studying the town's layout during the day. His eyes gleamed with excitement and determination as he guided us toward our target.
As we approached the heart of the town, Kuro signaled for us to take positions. We dutifully split into smaller groups, each assigned to handle the patrolling guards that would eventually show up according to the schedule Captain Kuro had observed. Kuro himself focused on the grand merchant's mansion that stood as a beacon of opulence in the center of town.
In the hushed darkness, I navigated the quiet paths of the port town. And there he was. A corpulent but imposing man in leather armor, but luckily without a helmet. After carefully observing the guard's routine, I seized the moment as he turned a corner. With a swift strike from my meat tenderizer, he slumped to the ground, unconscious. My pulse raced with a mix of dread and shame.
I didn't want to know how many hours Kuro had to spy on that poor bastard to give me such detailed notes.
I also didn't want to know what was happening in the merchant's mansion with Kuro in there on the prowl.
A simple theft, a hostage situation, or something more violent. Nowadays, Kuro was as unreadable to me as he was to anyone else.
I sighed in misery and dragged the poor bloke at my feet into a dark corner and out of sight. Taking position as instructed on the street corner, I allowed my mind to wander to a better time.
On and on it went until we were heading for Loguetown again.
Heading towards Loguetown for resupply was never a journey I relished. Kuro's decision to sail under a false flag to avoid drawing attention only added to my sour mood. As we anchored, I found myself assigned a familiar task that only deepened my irritation.
I was put in charge of Billy, a burly and unenthusiastic deckhand, and tasked with gathering various supplies from the bustling markets. The wooden cart he dragged behind him creaked and groaned with each step, a perfect reflection of my inner annoyance. The streets were a chaotic mess of people and noise, a stark contrast to the relative calm of the ship. Billy's grunts and the cart's protests formed a discordant soundtrack as we navigated through the crowded streets. My thoughts kept drifting back to the ship, to the life I hadn't chosen but was now bound to.
Or was I?
Amidst the chaos of the market, a sign gleamed from a restaurant's window, "Dishwasher Wanted!" The simplicity of those words struck a chord, igniting a fire of contemplation within me.
A fresh start, an escape from the clutches of piracy.
My fingers tightened on the cart's rough wooden side as I mulled over the idea. I thought of my mother, of her disappointed gaze, as if she could witness the life I was now leading. The weight of my choices seemed to bear down on me, every step in the busy market emphasizing my internal conflict.
I felt a pang of bitterness as I watched the town's inhabitants go about their carefree lives.
The sun was high in the sky, casting harsh shadows as I trailed behind Billy, each step taking me further from the ship that had become both my prison and my only refuge.
In my pocket, the weight of the small sack of coins reminded me of my own worth in this new life. A bounty of 500,000 berries, a 'reward' for my participation in the pirate crew. A twisted sense of accomplishment mingled with my dissatisfaction. I wasn't happy with the title of a pirate, nor was I content with the growing recognition that my actions had garnered.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, we managed to gather the necessary supplies. The cart was laden with provisions, a tangible representation of my ties to the pirate life I so desperately wanted to escape. I glanced back over my shoulder toward the direction where the ship's anchored form was hidden from my view behind rows of residential building and harbor warehouses.
Again, the jiggle of the money in my pocket, the remains of my budget, caught my attention. I wasn't completely without means.
As we began our journey back to the ship, my heart pounded with a mixture of fear and determination. A plan was forming in my mind, one that involved slipping away from the crew, from Kuro's watchful gaze.
It was as daring as it was simple; I thought.
The creaking of the cart echoed my thoughts, a constant reminder of the life I was intent on leaving behind. I stole a glance at Billy, who seemed lost in his own world of weariness and routine. Perhaps he, too, had his own dreams and regrets.
My gaze shifted from the bustling market to the restaurant in the distance, the words "Dishwasher Wanted!" burned into my mind. A chance for something different, a way out. As I walked alongside the cart, Billy's grumbling serving as a backdrop to my thoughts, I found myself contemplating the possibilities.
I couldn't shake the feeling that I was a pawn in someone else's game. The life of a pirate was not what I had envisioned, and with each passing day, the weight of my decisions seemed to grow heavier. As we navigated through the narrow streets, an idea took root in my mind, a spark of rebellion against the path I was forced to tread.
"Billy," I said, my voice barely audible over the clamor around us.
He grunted in response, his attention clearly divided between his task and his irritation.
"I need to grab a few things from a nearby shop," I continued, my tone casual as if it were a mundane request. "I want to look for some new kitchen knives."
He shot me a skeptical glance, his bushy eyebrows furrowing. "We got a whole arsenal of knives on the ship. What d'you need more for?"
I shrugged, trying to keep my expression neutral. "Just want to find some that suit me better. You know how it is."
Billy's grunt seemed to indicate his lack of understanding, but he didn't protest further. "Fine, I'll take care of the cart. Don't take too long."
I forced a grateful smile, all the while concealing the churn of excitement and nerves within me. "Thanks, Billy. I'll be quick."
As I watched him continue with the cart, I felt a mixture of anxiety and determination building up within me. This was my chance to break free, to forge a different path. I had seen enough of Kuro's world, observed his actions and choices, and none of it resonated with the life I wanted for myself. It was time to take control, even if it meant running away and hiding until the Black Cat Pirates left Loguetown.
The restaurant's sign continued to hang in my mind, a beacon of hope that contrasted starkly with my current situation. I had a plan forming, a way to escape the grip of a life that never truly felt like mine. All I needed was the courage to see it through.
"Please, just leave already!" I whined, exhaustion and despair marring my voice. My unblinking gaze through the shabby spyglass I had stolen on the unassuming ship still docked at the harbor.
This wasn't the courage I had hoped for, but it was necessary! I grit my teeth as my stomach rumbled.
I was on a roof, pathetically cowering behind a chimney. The tall house was several rows from the coastline and built on a small hill. I was hidden and had a perfect view. And yet...
For two days and nights, I hid on this roof and only dared to venture down to get water from a nearby rain barrel.
Capt'n Kuro was a scary bastard! Maybe I had been blind to it at the beginning of our shared journey, but now I could see it clear as day.
I couldn't count the number of times I dozed off and imagined staring through the spyglass only to be greeted by the sight of my captain looking straight at me, ice-cold eyes and glint of glasses included.
The sun and the hunger were doing a number on me, but...
I couldn't help but gasp! My eyes widened as the sails began to unfurl.
Desperation clawed at me as I held my breath, watching the vessel grow smaller and smaller until it vanished abruptly behind the curve of the horizon. A profound sense of relief washed over me, and for a fleeting moment, I felt weightless, as if I could simply float away from the confines of this roof.
With a weary sigh, I rolled onto my back, the warmth of the sun-soaked tiles adding a touch of comfort to my battered soul. I was free, but what now? The question echoed through my mind as I contemplated my uncertain future.
First and foremost, I needed to find a place to cleanse myself, the accumulated dirt and grime of my former life clinging to me like a persistent specter. New clothes were a necessity, too. It was time to shed the remnants of my past and embrace the unknown path that lay ahead, whatever it may hold.
"Dishwasher Wanted!"
I was back and stared at my ticket for a brighter future. The faint reflection of the window was currently depicting the new me. Clean and appropriately dressed, the fruits of petty theft and lockpicking, hopefully, the last crimes I would ever need to commit.
The stolen clothes fit better than I had expected, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, I didn't feel like a pirate. It was a good feeling that I greedily latched onto to mask my nervousness.
Stepping inside the restaurant, I was greeted by the tantalizing aroma of freshly cooked food and the clinking of dishes. The establishment was cozy, with wooden beams and warm, earthy tones, yet undeniably fancy. It seemed worlds away from the treacherous life I had left behind.
Approaching the counter, I immediately gained the attention of the restaurant greeter, a clean-shaven young man.
"Yes?"
He was polite but not warm, which was understandable since I was obviously not going to be a paying customer. Luckily it was still early in the day and traffic was negligible, in short, I wasn't in anybody's way.
"Hello, I noticed the sign in the window and wish to apply for the job," I answered straight-backed and clearly. Given that Kuro had been a bit of a stickler for tact and decorum it wasn't a surprise that some of it seemed to have rubbed on to me.
"Please wait here," the young man instructed in a no-nonsense manner and gave a meaningful glance over his shoulder to the bartender, who responded with a simple nod. The message was clear as day even to me; Watch out for trouble!
With that, the guy vanished through a side door only to reappear half a minute later with the chef, and possibly the restaurant's owner, a portly man with a bushy mustache.
White hat, white apron, and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He certainly looked the part as he marched past the greeter and straight to me, giving an aura of someone who would rather be back in his kitchen.
"Hands!" he ordered brusquely and leaned down when I promptly presented them. Old Man Larry, Krieg, and Kuro, this guy wasn't going to rattle me, despite the make-or-break-it situation.
Half a dozen little cuts and burns apparently were the right thing as he nodded in satisfaction and eyed me now with the slightest hint of approval.
"Do you have experience?" he asked, despite the obvious clues on my hands.
"Yes, I helped in the kitchen of a saloon in Oykot Kingdom, and then I worked in the galley of two ships," I answered, as some mannerism from my time under Krieg and his penchant for military bled into my stance and voice.
"Ships?" the yet-to-be-named chef needled, perhaps sensing the crux of the matter.
"Yes," I simply nodded and met his gaze squarely. "Ships."
"Very well," he straightened, his belly protruding. "Follow me, from now on you will address me as Chef Portnoy, understood?"
"Yes, Chef Portnoy!"
The restaurant I landed the job in had turned out to be a bit more upscale than I had bargained for. Chef Portnoy's place was all about elegance and formality, a stark contrast to the rough-and-tumble life I'd had with the pirates.
Every day, I'd walk through those fancy wooden doors, feeling like a fish out of water. The place was decked out with crystal chandeliers, white linen tablecloths, and plush chairs. Diners dressed to the nines, chatting away and clinking their glasses, creating a kind of high-society buzz that was worlds apart from the pirate ship.
My gig as a dishwasher evolved quite a bit since I had started. Those delicate dishes, fancy glassware, and silverware needed kid-glove treatment. My hands, which used to be rough as sandpaper from pirate work, now had to be gentle as I handled these pricey items.
My shift happened mostly in the evenings while diners enjoyed their expensive meals. I'd be in the back, scrubbing away, stacking dishes, and storing them, making sure nothing went back to the tables with a speck of food on it. Pots and pans, too, got the full treatment, scrubbed to a shine, and ready for another round.
And the floors, well, they were my responsibility too, and with all the hustle and bustle, spills were just a matter of time. So, I got to know that mop and bucket pretty well, making sure no one took a tumble.
About a month into my employment, Chef Portnoy noticed my diligence. He looked at me one day, eyebrow raised, and asked, "Hadley, ever handled a knife before?"
Like he didn't know the answer already.
I nodded calmly, novelty and nervousness regarding these new people had long since faded. Knives were part and parcel of pirate life, and my respective skills were nothing to sneeze at, in my humble opinion at least.
He handed me a chef's knife, its blade sharp as a razor. "Let's see your skills," he said, for a change somewhat relaxed, and guided me to a cutting board piled high with veggies.
From then on, my role expanded. I became part prep cook, my decent knife skills, as it turned out, only getting sharper under Chef Portnoy's watchful eye. I chopped, sliced, and diced ingredients, until yet again a new routine started to set in.
Weeks turned into months, and I became a trusted member of Chef Portnoy's kitchen team. I wasn't particularly close with anybody in the restaurant, or even Loguetown for that matter, but that was fine with me. Kitchen and restaurant floor, dishes and various utensils, trash, storage, ingredients prepared mise en place to every cook's liking, my head and hands were as busy as they could be, which wasn't a bad thing, I reckoned.
With that in mind, I decided to keep up my training. The guest room I rented over a bar near the docks only saw me for sleep.
The time that wasn't spent in the restaurant was spent at a ship graveyard across town. Captain Kuro hadn't trained me, but I'd observed his incredible agility and speed during our time together. Those memories were etched into my mind, driving me to push myself harder each day.
I never wanted to be a toy again for people like him, Krieg, or Bluejam. Another name I would never forget.
An old damaged canon, first padded with a burlap sandbag and later, much later, thick leather, was my practice dummy. I'd go through my forms, mimicking kicks and movements I'd seen Captain Kuro perform. It was a frustrating process. There were times when I'd trip over my own feet or miss a strike entirely. But I kept at it, determined to master those lightning-quick kicks.
Sometimes, it felt like my body was betraying me. My legs would shake from exhaustion, and I'd fall on my ass like a drunken sailor. Time slipped by, however, I didn't know how much, but I started to notice a change. My kicks became swifter, my strikes more precise. The satisfaction of seeing progress, of feeling the power in my legs, was intoxicating. And that feeling followed me throughout the entire graveyard that somehow became my playground.
I raced, jumped, and climbed like greased lightning over rotten masts, precarious ropes and riggings, from one broken hull to the other. I loved it...and I hated it.
Deep down I hated the thought, that I might actually miss the thrill of the pirate life.
Loguetown, 8 years after Gol D. Roger's execution
Two years had come and gone since I first stepped into Chef Portnoy's restaurant. I had grown steadily during that time, not only in stature but also in skill and confidence. No longer the scrawny dishwasher, I now comfortably filled out a simple but elegant busboy's costume. Amongst the guests, I no longer looked out of place, and my workload had increased accordingly.
On one particular evening, the restaurant was winding down, and only a handful of patrons lingered at their tables. At one such table was a stout, middle-aged woman with voluminous auburn hair and oversized sunglasses that concealed much of her face. She wasn't exactly a beauty, but definitely a talker.
Seated across from her was a man of stark contrast. Slender, with a square-like face and long, sharp fingernails. His purple hair curled upwards into a rather extravagant style. This coupled with his thin sunglasses and suit screamed of a guy that had aimed for sleek but plowed right past it.
Both exuded an aura of eccentricity that drew curious yet subtle glances from those nearby.
As I went about my duties, clearing plates and serving digestifs or espressos to the remaining guests, I couldn't help but strain my ears to eavesdrop on their conversation. It was a habit born not only from curiosity but also from necessity. Just as Kuro had sought information on valuable targets during our pirate days, I had learned the value of gathering intelligence on the quirks and characters of those who dined here.
The lady leaned across the table, her oversized sunglasses slipping down her nose as she spoke rapidly in a high-pitched, child-like voice, "Eric, darling, you have no idea what kind of opportunities await you with us. We're a growing organization, and our future is as bright as the East Blue sky! We offer a generous salary, and that's just the beginning. For every capture or kill, you get a percentage, sweetie. Think about the bounties you could earn!"
The now-named Eric, stoic and oozing arrogance, simply raised an eyebrow. "I've been doing just fine on my own, Miss M. Why should I consider your little club?"
Miss M giggled, the sound oddly juxtaposed with her stout figure.
"Oh, Eric, you've got spirit, and I love it! But imagine this: we can station you somewhere positively lucrative, darling. No more chasing after small fries. And our information network, well, let's just say it's extensive. You'd have access to secrets even the Marines don't know."
Eric leaned back, his stoic expression unwavering. "Your offer is intriguing, but I need more information. What's the name of your organization, Miss M.?"
Miss M. just smiled, her high-pitched voice as enigmatic as her response. "Oh, darling, names can be so confining, don't you think?"
Eric's stoicism cracked for a moment, a loud and clear "Tsk!" escaping his lips. He didn't appreciate this evasion.
He shook his head, standing up, and repeated, "I work alone."
Miss M's smile didn't waver as she watched him rise. She didn't try to stop him, only adding, "Whenever you grow a pair, dear, you may head for Whiskey Peak."
Given the way he grew rigid and his frown became a full-blown scowl I couldn't help but prepare myself for violence. My hand inched subtly toward a steak knife on the tray I was holding and my legs readied themselves for explosive action.
Unlike the woman, who simply smiled and seemingly dared him to attack. More and more I was getting the impression, that there was more to her than met the eye, and that she might be the bigger fish at that table.
"Waste of my time!" the thin man growled until he finally turned. His scowl was still engraved to every pore of his face, his gait toward the door painfully stiff, radiating agitation and bruised ego. His hair swayed with the force of his frustration.
Miss M. finally sighed when Eric vanished through the door, her high-pitched voice settling into something more human. She turned to me and, in a tone more in line with her appearance, ordered a Cognac and the bill.
I quickly retrieved the requested Cognac, a fine crystal glass filled with amber liquid, and the bill from the bar. With practiced finesse, I balanced the Cognac on a silver tray, making my way back to her table. As I placed the little plate with the bill on the crisp white tablecloth, Miss M. turned her attention to me. Her sunglasses hid her eyes, leaving me to wonder what thoughts lay behind them.
She leaned forward slightly, her voice taking on a gentler tone, almost motherly. "The offer stands for you as well, dear. A bounty at your age is nothing to sneeze at."
I froze in my tracks, feeling the weight of her words. They hung in the air like an unspoken promise, tantalizing and terrifying at the same time. My young mind raced as I tried to make sense of what she meant.
"I'm sorry, madam," I finally managed to stammer, my voice wavering slightly, "I'm afraid I don't understand."
Her smile remained enigmatic, and for a moment, I felt like I was being measured, scrutinized. "No need to rush, young one," she replied with a faint, almost wistful smile. "Remember, Whisky Peak on Cactus Island."
Loguetown, 9 years after Gol D. Roger's execution
The more I grew and trained, the more I realized, that I was a cut above the rest of Chef Portnoy's employees in certain areas. Getting big heavy barrels and bags down into the cellar, no problem. Lifting a pig or an ox on the spit onto the grill, a bit awkward but also no problem.
Or this instance, for example, little old me balancing four heavy wooden mixed meat plates toward a celebrating group of young marines in the back of the restaurant. A merry band celebrating promotion with beer and a feast, that despite the jubilant atmosphere managed to behave themselves and not disturb the other guests at the front of the restaurant.
I distributed the plates along the long table, received their orders for refills with a polite nod, and left them to their feast, their laughter and camaraderie fading into the background.
Back at the bar I quickly prepared two trays full of glasses and tankards, each brimming with various liquids, for the thirsty soldiers. Suddenly, with both hands occupied with a tray, I couldn't help but pause in my trek, right in the middle of the restaurant.
It was a surreal feeling, one I hadn't experienced since my days as a pirate, in the heat of battle when I was still in the thick of it.
Confusion knitted my brows as I glanced around the restaurant. Two elderly businessmen engaged in a serious discussion, a young couple lost in each other's eyes near the window, and a little birthday gathering of middle-aged ladies giggling over a cake. There was nothing out of the ordinary, and yet, an uneasy feeling settled in the pit of my stomach, like I was being watched.
I shook my head, attributing the sensation to lingering paranoia from my past life as a pirate. Pushing the nagging feeling aside, I focused on my duties, pouring drinks and attending to the guests.
Still,...weird.
It was the next day, late in the evening to be precise. The restaurant had closed its doors, and I was busy lugging heavy bags of trash from both the kitchen and the dining area out into the dimly lit back alley. The cobblestone ground was rough underfoot, and the flickering light from a nearby lamppost did little to alleviate the shadows that seemed to dance around me.
Just as I was about to open the back door and return inside, a cold voice sliced through the quiet night air from only a few feet behind me. "Put your hands right up where I can see them, boy!"
I froze, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. I hesitated for what seemed like a moment too long, because the next thing I heard was the distinct sound of a hammer being cocked. Instantly, I realized this was no idle threat and I slowly raised my hands.
"Now, turn around, and don't be hasty," the voice ordered with calm confidence.
I complied, my heart still racing. It was the man from yesterday, the loved-up bloke who had dined with his lovely lady. Only now, he wasn't aiming a smile at a woman; instead, he aimed a flintlock pistol squarely at me, his expression stern and unyielding.
"Oh sh..!" I nearly swore as I finally got a good look at the man before me. Why it took a full Marine uniform for me to recognize Daddy Masterson, I would never know. Goddamit!
I swallowed hard and forced myself to adopt a trembling, fearful expression. "Is... is this a robbery, sir?" I stammered, doing my best to appear as a scared, innocent boy caught in an unfortunate situation.
Daddy Masterson's eyes narrowed as he assessed me. The pistol in his hand never wavered, a stark reminder of the danger I was in. "Don't play games with me, boy," he growled, his voice low and menacing. "You're not what you seem."
I didn't dare utter another word. Instead, I simply stared at Daddy Masterson, my heart racing in my chest.
He continued to study me, his suspicion evident in his steely gaze. "I've heard stories about your captain, Kuro," he said, his tone dark and foreboding. "If this is one of his schemes, you'd better tell me now. What's the Butcher Boy doing in my town?"
I had to think fast. Revealing my true identity and the fact that I was once part of Kuro's crew was not an option. "I... I don't know what you're talking about," I stammered, trying to sound as innocent as possible. "I'm just a dishwasher, sir. I don't know anything about any schemes or Butcher Boy."
Daddy Masterson's grip on the pistol tightened.
The man obviously didn't buy my feeble lie. He sneered and advanced toward me, his pistol still trained on my chest. "We can do this the easy way, boy, or the hard way. Your choice."
A spark of defiance ignited within me. I wasn't about to be captured and dragged to the marine base. Not here, not now. I wasn't going down without a fight.
I feigned a resigned sigh and pretended my surrender. But in truth, I was preparing to use my old captain's secret technique—the "Stealth Foot." As Daddy Masterson took a step closer, I gathered my strength and vanished into a flying knee.
In the blink of an eye, barely a fraction of it even, after my knee felt resistance an ear-shattering bang echoed through the alley.
My flying kick sent Daddy Masterson hurtling through the neighbor's wooden backyard fence, crashing into a brick wall with a bone-rattling impact. He lay there in a crumpled heap, and whether he was dead or alive, I couldn't tell even if I wanted to as pain erupted in my left shoulder as I crashed onto the cobblestone. "The bastard shot me!" My mind screamed at me in shock.
Clutching my wounded shoulder, I struggled to my feet, the searing pain serving as a grim reminder of my predicament. Adrenaline coursed through my veins and kept me upright. I needed to get away and find a doctor, and I needed to do it quickly.
Every step felt like a nightmare, but I forced myself to move, weaving through the labyrinthine streets of Loguetown, desperate to put as much distance as possible between me and the marine sniper I had just incapacitated...or worse, I thought grimly.
Blood seeped through my fingers, staining my once-pristine busboy costume crimson. The excruciating pain in my shoulder threatened to overwhelm me, but I couldn't afford to slow down. My thoughts raced, both about my immediate need for medical attention and the inevitable consequences of my actions. Daddy Masterson was a well-known marine, and my attack on him wouldn't go unnoticed.
As I stumbled through the dimly lit streets, my mind raced with a singular determination—survive.
After what felt like an eternity of excruciating pain and painstakingly slow progress, I stumbled upon a pirate ship moored at the nearby docks. It was a stroke of luck I desperately needed. The pirates aboard were a motley crew, to say the least, and they eyed me with a mixture of suspicion and amusement as I staggered toward their vessel, clutching my wounded shoulder.
Somehow I managed to convey my dire need for medical attention, and after some haggling and a hurried explanation of my situation, the captain allowed the ship's doctor to tend to my injuries. I would pay for his services with every last berry I had saved up, which amounted to roughly 90,000 berries. It was a steep price, but my life was worth far more.
Under the doctor's care, the pain gradually ebbed away until I finally mercifully lost consciousness.
It was in the dead of the following night when I could barely walk again that I heard the heavy, unmistakable footfalls approaching my makeshift bunk on the pirate ship. Gally, the rude and impatient captain of the vessel, stood there, his eyes glaring down at me. In his hand, he held a pair of handcuffs, a grim promise of what was to come.
"You owe me," he growled, his voice dripping with impatience. "Get up! It's time to collect what's mine or one of my boys will deliver you to the Marines."
Two days had passed since Gally had dragged me back to the bar, and I was literally back on square one. Worse, so much worse even.
It had been a brutal reckoning. I was now utterly broke, the pirate having bled me dry. 90.000 berries my ass! The scumbag took everything that tickled his fancy and left me with a hearty slap on my fresh wound. Said wound that continued to throb with seemingly every heartbeat.
To make matters worse, the bar owner had wasted no time in kicking me out of the little room I had called home. The reason? It was glaringly displayed in the local newspaper's headline: "Local Marine Hero Masterson Savagely Assaulted and Grievously Injured by the Butcher Boy."
The damning article painted me as a violent criminal, and sympathy for the marine hero flowed like a river through the town. There was no place for me here anymore. All I had left were the clothes on my back—rough linen shorts and a faded blue shirt—and an old butcher's knife I had salvaged from Chef Portnoy's trash.
I found refuge, of sorts, in the crows' nest of an anchored merchant ship. Hidden from prying eyes, I sat in the small space, clutching the damning newspaper.
The hammer blow of the headline finally digested I quietly went on with the article.
'Asked about what will be the response to this heinous crime Commander Smoker gave a fitting promise to this young reporter 'I will smoke the rat out of whatever hole he crawled into!'. Though less aggressively formulated, Captain Pudding agreed wholeheartedly with the sentiment of his second-in-command...'
As I continued to read the article, my heart sank further. It seemed the reporter had done their homework, delving into my past with headliners like Don Krieg and Captain Kuro. My association with these infamous pirates only served to paint me in an even darker light.
The article speculated about a possible plot that Masterson had been close to uncovering, hinting at the mystery surrounding the assault. What had the marine hero been investigating, and how had it led to such a violent confrontation? The answers remained elusive.
Then, the article dropped the final blow. An updated wanted poster for the criminal. I flipped through the pages, anxiety gnawing at me, until there it was. A picture of me, taken straight from the staff records of the restaurant. My eyes stared straight ahead, with no hint of a smile, and dressed in my old busboy costume. A white dress shirt under a black vest, and black pants, topped up with a black bowtie.
The second my eyes shifted down and past the image, my head nearly smacked against the wood of the crow's nest as I involuntarily rocked back in horror.
8.000.000 berries!
...
...
'Remember, Whisky Peak on Cactus Island.'
