The office of Morning John Belied was a sanctuary of order in the chaotic heart of Port Iron-Jaw. It smelled of polished oak, high-quality tobacco, and the faint, ever-present metallic grit that permeated everything on Gora-Gora. Ledgers were stacked with geometric perfection on a vast desk made from the helm of a captured Marine galleon. On the wall, a large chart detailed the intricate web of Black Heap supply lines, each route marked with neat, unwavering lines. Morning John was reviewing a shipment manifest for compressed steam coils, his brow furrowed in concentration, when the world betrayed him.
It began as a deep, subterranean thud that traveled up through the bones of the mountain. Then the vibration hit—a violent, shearing shudder that made the ironwood floor plates buck. The chart on the wall spasmed, its pins scattering. Ledgers slid like falling dominoes. A crystal inkwell containing expensive indigo ink leaped from his desk and shattered on the floor, a blue-black starfish of ruin blooming across the scrubbed planks. A framed etching of the Royal Fortune under full sail jumped from its nail and met a similar fate with a crash of splintering glass.
Morning John was on his feet before the shaking fully subsided, his chair toppling backwards. "DUSTY DIGBY OVAL!" he roared, the name a thunderclap in the confined space. His voice wasn't just anger; it was the fury of a meticulous system violently disrupted. "You industrially-obsessed furball! I'm trying to coordinate a three-continent embargo and you're rearranging the bedrock!"
The door flew open, revealing a young clerk whose face was the color of old parchment. "Sir—!"
"Not now!" Morning John barked, already snatching the receiver of a black Den Den Mushi whose shell was fashioned to resemble a miniature ship's wheel. The snail's eyes popped open, mimicking his own furious glare. The line connected with a series of rapid clicks.
Before he could speak, a voice like grinding granite burst from the receiver. "—output down twelve percent! Structural integrity of Shaft Nine compromised! What in the black depths was that?!"
"Dusty!" Morning John boomed, cutting off the tirade. "What in the name of every sane nautical chart are you doing down there? I have delicate instruments! I have symmetry! Explain why my office now looks like a tavern after a brawl!"
"It wasn't me!" Dusty's voice crackled back, indignant. "We don't have any percussive subsurface expansions scheduled until next Tuesday! My quota is clean! This is external sabotage or, or… geological indigestion!"
Morning John's piercing blue eyes narrowed to slits. The clerk in the doorway tried again, waving his hands. "Sir, please—"
"If it wasn't you," Morning John growled into the snail, ignoring the clerk, "then who—"
"That's what I came to tell you!" the clerk finally squeaked, finding his voice.
Morning John's head snapped toward him. The clerk flinched but held his ground. "Report. Immediately."
"S-signal from the coastal watchtower on the far side of the Spine, sir. The Razor Karsts. Suspicious activity sighted just before the… the tremor."
"Suspicious activity," Morning John repeated, his voice dangerously calm. He placed the Den Den Mushi receiver down on the desk, leaving the line open. "Define 'suspicious activity.' A peculiar cloud? A noisy seagull?"
The clerk swallowed. "One of our ironclad patrol skiffs, the Stonefist. They reported sighting an… unusual vessel. A silhouette that didn't match any local ore-barge or logging raft. It was there one moment, observing the forbidden coast near the old coral beds. Then it… vanished."
From the Den Den Mushi on the desk, Dusty Digby Oval's outraged voice erupted. "Vanished? Vanished?! Things don't just vanish! You either sink 'em, dig 'em, or stack 'em! Vanishing is for ghosts and lazy accountants!"
Morning John didn't pick up the receiver. He stared at the spreading pool of ink on his floor, his mind making cold, swift calculations. An unknown ship. The forbidden coast, where nothing of value was supposed to be. A cataclysmic underwater detonation. The math was ugly and pointed to one conclusion: intruders. Interlopers in his perfectly managed territory.
"Show me," he commanded, his voice dropping into the low, deadly register he used before ordering a broadside. He strode across the room, stepping over fallen books, and snatched his heavy navy coat from its stand. He tucked his two flintlock pistols into his silk sash with practiced, angry motions.
"Dusty, I'm investigating," he said toward the chattering snail. "Secure your tunnels. If this is a distraction, I'll expect your output to triple by nightfall to compensate." He reached out and firmly depressed the Den Den Mushi's receiver, cutting off a sputtering, stats-filled protest mid-sentence. The snail's eyes closed with a soft plop.
Storming out of his ruined office and down the vertical stairways of the caldera city, Morning John moved with the purpose of a hurricane. The metallic din of the port grew louder—the shriek of steam winches, the crash of ore being dumped, the shouted curses of dockworkers. The air tasted of coal smoke and salt.
As his polished boots hit the main iron dock, where the water was perpetually stained rust-red from the mangroves, another figure fell into step beside him. Over Regolith's approach was silent, but the weight of his presence was like a new piece of machinery being installed.
"I assume you felt the seismic anomaly," Over Regolith stated, his voice a measured counterpoint to Morning John's simmering rage. He adjusted his circular spectacles, his grey eyes scanning the chaotic port activity, already assessing the operational impact.
"I felt my ledger for the third quarter become a collage of abstract expressionism," Morning John replied tersely, not breaking stride as he headed for a sleek, steam-cutter moored nearby, its funnel already puffing impatient white clouds. "I am about to board the Swift Accountant and investigate this… anomaly."
Over Regolith gave a single, shallow nod, his greatcoat flapping around his ankles. "I will accompany you. We cannot tolerate an unplanned variable disrupting our operational coefficients. A disturbance of this magnitude suggests either profound incompetence," he said, casting a glance toward the distant mountain where Dusty presumably was fuming, "or intentional, targeted intervention. The probability of the latter requires a joint-response."
Morning John didn't argue. He merely jerked his head toward the cutter's gangplank. Together, the stern Admiral of Provision and the glacial Architect of Efficiency stepped onto the deck, their shared, unspoken fury as tangible as the Grav-Ore that anchored their island. The mystery ship hadn't just vanished. It had dared to ring a bell it couldn't possibly silence, and now two of the most dangerous, system-minded men in the on the island were coming to collect the debt.
*****
The vibrant chaos of the marketplace appeared to shrink, the air thickening around Jannali's group as they tried to make their escape. The lingering cheers for Vesta's performance were a beacon they no longer wanted.
"Right, that's enough, we need to get going!" Jannali declared, her voice cutting through the adulation. She hooked an arm through Vesta's, who was still beaming and waving at her newfound "fans." With a firm tug, she began pulling the rainbow-haired musician away from the crowd.
"But the encore!" Vesta protested, though she allowed herself to be steered. Mikasi, in her arms, shifted from a drum to a quiet, mourn-looking lute.
Atlas, having watched the perimeter with a predator's stillness, stepped forward. Without a word, he took two heavy sacks of rice and dried fish from a bewildered stall vendor—already paid for—and thrust them into Jannali and Vesta's free arms. "Carry," he said, his tone leaving no room for debate. He then bent his knees, the powerful muscles in his legs coiling, and hoisted a crate of preserved fruits and root vegetables onto his shoulder as if it were filled with feathers. The wood groaned in protest.
Eliane, her own satchel bulging with carefully selected spices and vegetables, performed a final, quick inventory, her small fingers ticking off items in the air. "I think we have everything we need," she announced, her voice bright with satisfaction. The culinary mission was, in her eyes, a resounding success. She looked around, her cheerful expression faltering for a split second. "Where is…?"
Atlas interrupted her, his lynx-like ears twitching as he scanned the shifting crowd beyond their little circle. "Remember, we are doing…" His voice trailed off, the sentence dying in his throat. His body, previously relaxed in its strength, went taut. His sapphire-blue eyes, their slit pupils narrowing, locked onto a point ahead of them.
The flow of the market parted like a river around a stone, revealing the obstacle. Jeanne de Clisson stood planted in their path, her arms crossed over her black leather corset. The afternoon sun glinted off the lioness-tooth necklace at her throat. Beside her, a head taller and radiating a stiff, formal menace, was Vitus Quinctilius Varo. His obsidian Roman armor looked utterly alien against the backdrop of woven pandanus stalls and colorful tapa cloth.
A heavy silence fell over their immediate vicinity. The chatter of the market continued, but it felt distant, muffled.
Atlas's brow furrowed, his tail nub giving a single, irritated flick behind him. "Need something?" he asked, his voice a low, challenging rumble.
A corner of Jeanne's mouth quirked upward. It wasn't a smile. It was the expression of a hunter examining an unexpected specimen. Her amber eyes traveled over the mismatched group: the athletic woman with the hidden eyes, the towering Mink, the child-sized chef, and the flamboyant musician. "You don't look like you're from around here," she stated, her tone deceptively casual.
Atlas, Jannali, Eliane, and Vesta shared a quick, loaded glance—a silent conversation of raised eyebrows and slight shifts in posture. Atlas turned his gaze back to Jeanne, a lazy, defiant smirk spreading across his face. "Really," he drawled. "What gave it away? The lack of a sunhat, or the fact we're not covered in fish scales?"
Vitus took a half-step forward, his elongated arm gesturing with sharp, jointed motion. "You will mind your tone!" he barked, his voice like grinding stones. "We are the sovereignty of these waters. You will show respect to Captain Clisson."
Jeanne, however, simply raised a hand, a slight motion that stopped Vitus mid-word. Her eyes never left Atlas. The Mink's disrespectful confidence was more interesting to her than any show of forced courtesy.
Jannali shifted her weight, the sack in her arms suddenly feeling heavier. Her mind raced, the voices of the wind around her a whisper of caution. "We don't want no trouble," she said, her accent firm, her words measured. "Deadset, we're just passing through. Picking up supplies is all. Our ship… had a bit of a rough time. Now, if you'll excuse us, we'll be on our way." She gave a curt, meaningful nod to her group and started to step around the two pirates, her path a clear attempt to avoid further engagement.
Vesta, oblivious of the friction, smiled brilliantly as she was ushered past. "It was so nice meeting you! Loved the energy here!" she chirped, completely misreading the tense atmosphere.
Eliane, her mind already back on the ingredients in her bag, mumbled to herself as she blankly followed Jannali, "The chili will need to balance the saltfish… maybe a citrus…"
Atlas lingered. He held his ground for a moment longer, his body angled toward Jeanne and Vitus, his challenging glare unwavering. It was a silent statement, a predator acknowledging another predator and refusing to be the first to look away.
"Atlas!" Jannali's voice called back, sharp with warning. "Catch up!"
The spell broke. Atlas let out a quiet, dismissive huff through his nose. "Yeah," he said, his smirk returning. "Coming." He finally turned, the crate still balanced effortlessly on his shoulder, and sauntered after the others. But as he went, he cast one last look over his shoulder, his eyes meeting Jeanne's directly—a grin that was all teeth and promise.
Jeanne and Vitus stood motionless, twin statues amidst the market's flow, and watched them go. They saw the confident swing in Atlas's stride, the purposeful haste in Jannali's steps, the oblivious bounce in Vesta's walk, and the culinary focus of Eliane.
When the group had melted into the throng, Jeanne spoke, her voice low and flat. "Vitus."
"Captain."
"Follow them. Find out who they are, what ship they came on, and what they're really doing here." She turned her head slightly, her gaze piercing. "No one just 'passes through' Sovereign territory. Not with a crew like that. Not today."
Vitus straightened, his armor plates clicking. "Understood. I will ascertain their intentions and their point of origin." He gave a stiff, soldierly nod. "On it." Then, with surprising grace for his rigid appearance, he moved, not pushing through the crowd but flowing into its gaps, his long limbs carrying him after the retreating forms with the silent persistence of a shadow.
Back with the group, Jannali muttered under her breath as Atlas fell into step beside her. "What the hell was that all about?"
Atlas glanced back, his ears swiveling. The feeling of being watched was a tangible itch between his shoulder blades. "Don't know," he grumbled, his playful demeanor gone, replaced by a focused intensity. "But we need to keep it moving. Now."
Jannali nodded, her grip tightening on her sack. "Agreed."
Vesta, blissfully unaware of the danger they'd just sidestepped, hugged her bag of supplies and sighed dreamily. "Wasn't that great? There were so many people! I think I really connected with the local cultural vibe!"
Atlas and Jannali shared another look, this one weary. Their simple food run had just gotten monumentally more complicated. The game on the island now had new players, and they were squarely in the middle of the board.
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