Chapter 38: The Rip-Off and the Riposte
The crisp morning air of the Sabaody Archipelago was thick with the scent of salt and secrets. After the clandestine triumph of the previous night, a new day demanded a different kind of performance from Commodore Ian and his crew. The weight of their Justice cloaks was gone, replaced by the starched, public-facing authority of their Marine uniforms.
Their patrol through the groves of gargantuan mangrove trees was a study in contrasts. The Marines who followed Ian did so with a newfound, almost fervent loyalty. The whispers of his unorthodox methods had been silenced by the亲眼目睹 (qīnyǎn mùdǔ) – witnessed-with-their-own-eyes demonstration of decisive, overwhelming justice he had delivered against the kidnappers in District 1. To them, he was no longer just a young upstart; he was a leader who got results.
The peace of the patrol was shattered by a frantic messenger. "Commodore Ian! You must come quickly! It's President Disco!"
Ian's brow furrowed, a mask of professional concern sliding into place. He led his unit at a brisk pace to a scene of grotesque theater. There, sprawled on a gurney in the middle of the path, was the once-flamboyant slave auctioneer. His limbs lay at unnatural angles, a broken marionette whose strings had been cruelly severed.
A medic, his face pale, stood to attention as Ian approached. "Commodore Ian, don't move! It's... best not to disturb the scene."
Ian halted, his eyes sweeping over the pathetic figure. "Report."
"Sir, Mr. Disco... the bones in all his limbs and joints were shattered. It's a brutal piece of work," the medic stated, his voice low and clinical. "The strange thing is, they were precise. They avoided all major arteries and vital organs. From a purely medical standpoint... he will live. But he'll never stand again, let alone walk."
Ian's eyes widened, his face a masterpiece of horror and righteous indignation. He took a sharp, dramatic breath.
"What?!" he boomed, the sound echoing through the quiet grove. "How cruel! So brutal!" He stepped closer to the gurney, looking down at Disco with an expression of profound, almost tragic, regret. "President Disco... you... you're useless!"
Hearing the cold, hard reality confirmed by the Marine's authority, Disco broke. A low, guttural wail escaped his lips, the only parts of him he could still move trembling violently. "Woooooooo... Commodore Ian, you must avenge me!" he sobbed, tears carving clean lines through the grime on his face. "They were the Dawn Pirates! Their leader is a monster called Dan Shuk!"
Ian turned his head, his gaze seeking out his most trusted confidante in matters of the pirate world. "Peacock," he asked, his voice laced with official inquiry. "Have you heard of this 'Dawn Pirates'?"
Peacock, leaning against a nearby mangrove with an air of detached boredom, didn't even bother to look up from inspecting her nails. She cleared her throat lightly. "Ahem. Can't say that I have, sir. Must be small-time."
Ian looked back down at Disco, his expression shifting to one of polite, bureaucratic finality. "You heard the expert. Not a blip on our radar."
Disco's tear-filled eyes bulged with disbelief. "What do you mean?!" he screeched, his voice cracking. "Commodore Ian, aren't you supposed to catch pirates? A crime of this magnitude, on your watch, and you don't care?"
Slowly, deliberately, Ian adjusted the pristine white Justice Coat draped over his shoulders. The gesture was filled with unshakable authority. He met Disco's desperate gaze, his own eyes cool and unwavering.
"President Disco," Ian said, his tone patient, as if explaining something to a forgetful child. "You are being remarkably forgetful. This archipelago is a gift, under the direct protection and jurisdiction of the Celestial Dragons. It has never... fallen under the purview of the Marine justice system. Our presence here is one of courtesy, not command."
The words hung in the air, a legalistic guillotine. Disco's face went from red to a sickly white as the implication sank in. There would be no investigation. No retribution. He was marooned in a legal no-man's-land of his own making.
"Take good care of yourself, President Disco," Ian said, his voice dropping to a conversational, almost cheerful tone that was more terrifying than any shout. A wicked glint flashed in his eyes, a private joke shared only with the universe. "I'll invite you to go cycling together sometime."
With that, he raised a hand in a casual signal. "Let's go! We still have a patrol to complete. Don't waste any more time on... administrative anomalies."
He turned on his heel, the picture of naval elegance, and strode away, leaving Disco sputtering in impotent, red-eyed rage. The Marines fell into step behind him, their formation crisp and unquestioning.
Peacock fell in beside Ian, a smirk playing on her lips as she nudged his arm with her elbow. "Invite him cycling?" she whispered, her voice dripping with amused malice. "Brigadier General Ian, that's just evil. You're a truly wicked man."
Ian's only response was a faint, smug smile.
More than an hour later, the unit found themselves in the shadier, more subdued atmosphere of the Chabaody Archipelago's Area 13. The journey from the opulent District 1 had been productive; they had dispersed a gang of foolishly overconfident pirates and dismantled two more kidnapping rings hiding in the bubble-coated backstreets. Each confrontation was a brief, violent storm, ended almost before it began by Ian's precise and overwhelming force.
A quick mental check of his system confirmed his progress. Including the points earned from the "disturbance" at the auction house yesterday, his total was now well over 700. The growth was steady, a bit slower than he'd prefer, but it was only the second day. This archipelago was a treasure trove of opportunity, and he intended to harvest every last bit of it.
His destination here was singular and specific: the bar perched conspicuously on a high point in the district. The infamous Rip-Off Bar. A quick, discreet reconnaissance from his men had confirmed only a single presence inside—the proprietress herself. It seemed he wouldn't get a chance to meet any of the "legendary" pirates who were rumored to frequent the place today. A small pity.
"You all, maintain position here," Ian ordered, his voice losing its earlier playful edge and becoming all business. "Peacock and I will go in. No one else is to enter unless I give the command. Is that clear?"
The response was immediate and sharp. "Yes, Brigadier General Ian!"
The respect in their voices was now absolute. The doubts of the previous day had been pulverized, replaced by the kind of awe that only demonstrated, unshakeable power could inspire.
Squeak!
The wooden door protested as Ian pushed it open, a small bell above jingling a cheerful, discordant announcement of their arrival—Ring-a-ling!
Peacock glanced up at the bar's sign one more time, her nose wrinkling in confusion. "Who names their business so... honestly?"
Inside, the air was hazy with smoke. Behind the counter, a woman of ageless, sharp beauty was wiping down the polished wood of the bar, a cigarette dangling from her lips. Her short, black hair was practical, her open-collared shirt a striking pink adorned with a spiderweb pattern. She moved with a languid, predatory grace that belied her true age—a former pirate queen who had long since traded the helm for a bottle of spirits.
This was Shakky. And she knew everything.
She didn't even look up as they entered. "Commodore Ian," she said, her voice a smooth, smoky contralto. "Is the pirate busting going smoothly? What brings you to my humble establishment for a drink?" Finally, she lifted her gaze, her eyes sharp and knowing. "Hah. What a promising young naval supernova."
Ian offered a charming, disarming smile. There was no point in pretense with someone like her. "Sister Shakky, I'm not here for a drink today. I've come to pay a visit to an 'old friend'... on behalf of my teacher, Vice Admiral Garp."