The alley was quiet now, save for the soft groans and twitches of the would-be kidnappers scattered around Gale's boots like trash after a festival.
They were in varying states of unconsciousness—one had his face buried in a patch of moss, another lay half-suspended on a broken pipe like someone had forgotten to finish throwing him out. Only one was still awake, kneeling with trembling limbs and wide, unblinking eyes fixed on Gale like he'd just been served a firsthand vision of the underworld.
Gale offered him a cheerful wave, eyes crinkling in a pleasant smile that somehow felt much worse than a punch to the gut. "Hey, don't look at me like that. You're lucky I didn't actually try."
Then, like he'd just remembered someone else was there, he turned back toward the cloaked mermaid.
She flinched slightly when his gaze landed on her—but he raised a hand in a calming gesture, his tone softening. "You alright?"
The mermaid nodded timidly under her hood.
Gale smiled. "Good. Hang in there, yeah? We'll get you home soon."
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a transponder snail the size of a fist—its little eyestalks blinking sleepily as it came to life with a bloop.
"Marine HQ communication center," came the voice on the other end after a moment.
"Yeah, connect me to the Sabaody Marine branch," Gale said, already leaning against the wall, one foot casually resting on an unconscious goon's back. "Tell 'em it's urgent."
There was a short wait, a few muffled clicks and shuffles, then a new voice filtered through, tired and vaguely annoyed.
"This is Lieutenant Rannick. Who am I talking to?"
"Captain Harlow Gale," Gale replied smoothly. "Reporting a bunch of feather-hatted clowns who thought mermaid-napping was a good idea."
There was a pause. "You're… not due for arrival until tomorrow, sir..."
Gale rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, time's a social construct. Let's not get stuck on the small stuff."
Another pause. "...Right."
"Good," Gale continued. "Here's the important part—get your people down to the old coating station ruin near Grove Thirty-Two. I've got a half-dozen unconscious morons gift-wrapped for you, and a mermaid who needs escorting back to the water. Preferably not through the back alleys."
Rannick grumbled something that might've been agreement—or mild dread—and said, "Fine. I'll send a squad. When are you reporting to the branch, Captain?"
Gale gave the snail a thoughtful glance, then shrugged. "Soon-ish. I want to get a feel for the place first, see what's changed while the grown-ups were out playing world police."
"Understood," Rannick muttered. "We'll take care of it."
The line went dead.
Gale tucked the transponder snail back into his coat, the little thing letting out a tired bloop as it vanished beneath the fabric.
Without missing a beat, he pulled out a flintlock pistol—sleek, short-barreled, with a mother-of-pearl grip that gleamed in the light like something from a nobleman's dueling set.
He flipped it around and pressed the handle into the mermaid's trembling hands.
"Alright, sweetheart," he said, crouching to her eye level, his tone halfway between warm and dangerously nonchalant. "I gotta get moving, so you need to be a big girl and take care of yourself 'til the real help gets here."
Her eyes widened like dinner plates as she cradled the gun, clearly unsure whether it was a weapon or an antique teapot. Gale pointed a thumb at the groaning heap of kidnappers.
"If any of these clowns so much as twitches the wrong way—shoot 'em."
She nodded, the pistol wobbling in her grip. "I—I'll try."
"Good girl. I'll be seeing you then."
With that, he turned to the one conscious kidnapper still frozen in place, sweat pouring down his face like a leaking faucet. Before the guy could make a sound, Gale casually grabbed him by the nape of his shirt and hoisted him up like a misbehaving puppy.
"Wh—where are you taking me?!" the thug stammered, voice cracking like a teapot lid under pressure.
"Me? Nowhere," Gale said with a grin, eyes gleaming like a cat about to toss a mouse into a shark tank. "You're taking me. To your boss."
He flexed his knees, ready to bolt—
BANG!
The crack of a gunshot echoed through the alley, sharp and sudden. Gale instinctively froze mid-motion and whipped around, eyes wide.
One of the unconscious thugs now had a smoking hole dangerously close to the sacred family jewels.
The mermaid, still holding the flintlock with both hands, blinked at him like she'd just asked whether he wanted milk or sugar in his tea.
"He breathed too aggressively," she explained with the innocence of someone asking if she could pet your dog.
Gale's eye twitched.
"...Right. Let me rephrase that."
He pointed back at the barely-intact groin victim.
"Only shoot if they try to run or attack you. And, uh—try not to neuter anyone when you do, yeah?"
The mermaid pouted, visibly disappointed. "Tha—that's a shame…"
Gale just stared. Mouth open. No sound. A hundred witty comebacks lined up in his brain, but none dared step out.
"…Y'know," he finally managed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Looks really are deceiving."
Without another word, he turned around and took off, kidnapper slung in one hand like luggage. As he vanished into the alleys of Sabaody, his voice floated back.
"May the gods have mercy on you idiots… 'Cause she sure as shit won't."
...
The sun hung low above the tangled mess of Sabaody's mangrove skyline, casting long shadows over the crumbling wreckage of what was once a hotel, or maybe a brothel. Hard to tell with the amount of graffiti and busted walls—though the pirate flags spray-painted across the side gave a pretty clear hint of what sort of company passed through here.
Gale stood atop what remained of the roof, arms crossed, his coat flapping lightly in the breeze. Beside him sat the still-breathing kidnapper, nervously shifting on the uneven tiles and glancing toward the building below.
It stood there like a sore tooth among a mouthful of rot—weathered but largely intact, complete with a pair of guards flanking its door like mismatched bookends. They were armed with bows (because apparently that was still a thing), and each wore the same ridiculous green cone-shaped hat feathered like a festival piñata.
Gale squinted.
"…Okay," he said, pointing down, "do I need to know if that's a gang uniform or if I've accidentally walked into a forest elf cosplay meetup?"
The thug winced, scratching his cheek. "It's, uh… our boss. He's really into the whole 'hunter aesthetic' thing." A beat. "He's… kinda weird."
Gale gave a quiet chuckle. "Kinda? Buddy, y'all look like rejected mascots from a failed cereal brand."
He turned his eyes back toward the building, pupils narrowing with focus. "He in there?"
"As far as I know," the thug nodded quickly, eager to be useful.
"Good," Gale said, smiling. "Then you've earned yourself a nap."
"…Wait, what—?"
CRACK.
The man dropped like a sack of flour, eyes rolling up before his body even hit the roof. Gale shook out his knuckles with a mild frown.
"Still hate sucker punches. But boy are they efficient."
He stood up, dusted off his coat, and adjusted the hood of his cloak just enough to shadow his features. The building's entrance lay below—two goons, one door, one captain with a full head of bad ideas.
His boots landed lightly in the alleyway with barely a whisper of sound. He didn't draw a weapon. Not yet. This was recon. Light steps. Casual posture. Friendly, even.
Still… his eyes were locked on the entrance like a predator staring at the gap in a fence.
"I swear, if the boss is wearing a hat to match his boys…" Gale muttered under his breath, smirking to himself, "I might actually commit fashion-based homicide."
With that, he stepped out of the alley and into the open, eyes gleaming, pulse steady.
Time to knock.
...
Inside the dim husk of the building, the scent of mold and sweat lingered thick in the air.
A few rays of fading sunlight filtered through cracks in the boarded-up windows, spotlighting the operation running inside—half a dozen men gathered around snail transceivers and logbooks, communicating with scouts across Sabaody while sipping cheap booze and laughing like this was some tavern backwater, not a human trafficking ring.
At the center of it all sat their illustrious leader: the Head Hound himself.
If "fashion disaster" was a combat rank, this guy had achieved admiral.
A walking slab of meat, he was twice the width and height of a normal man, the green feathered cone hat perched proudly atop his head like a circus tent spike.
His torso was covered in… nothing, unless you counted the stretched-to-its-limit hunter green vest that flapped open around his brick-like abs. A quiver full of arrows rested against his back, and a ridiculously oversized longbow leaned against his chair like a decorative cane.
He watched his men work with pride, scratching the thick stubble on his jaw and smiling like a proud father at a school play.
"Efficient. Quick. Organized," he grunted approvingly. "We run like clockwork. Even got us a mermaid today. A mermaid. That's a year's worth of profit in one haul."
He chuckled darkly to himself, leaning forward as he imagined the auctioneer's voice booming across the Human Shop floor, the sound of beri piling up with every call.
He almost wanted to keep her. As decoration. Maybe put her in a fishbowl or something.
"They should be here by now…" he muttered aloud, glancing toward the door with anticipation gleaming in his beady little eyes.
As if on cue, there came a knock. Then another.
He stood up with a heavy creak of the floorboards, cracking his knuckles, a grin spreading across his face.
"Right on time, boys. Let's see the prize—"
CRASH.
The door didn't open so much as evaporate, two green-coned goons crashing through it like party favors at a demolition derby. One hit the far wall with a dull thud. The other landed face-first in a pile of coiled rope and groaned once before going completely limp.
A single bootstep followed. Then another. Slow. Confident.
A young man strolled into the room like he was taking a casual walk through a souvenir shop.
Thin-framed, messy-haired, and smug enough to qualify as a public hazard, the stranger had a relaxed saunter and a grin that somehow suggested both I'm here to help and I'm here to ruin your life at the same time.
Gale raised a hand in greeting, eyes scanning the room casually as if inspecting real estate.
"Nice setup you've got here," he said, stepping over one of the unconscious guards like he was sidestepping a puddle.
He clapped once.
"It's mine now."
Half the men in the room jumped to their feet, hands instinctively reaching for weapons, but the Hound Leader didn't move. His grin had vanished, and his brow furrowed as he tried—and failed—to process the sheer disrespect in this twig-legged intruder's tone.
Gale's eyes met his, amused.
This guy was big. That kind of my head scrapes doorframes big. If muscles had muscles, they'd look like this dude's biceps. Gale, by contrast, looked like he could be knocked over by a stiff breeze and a strongly worded insult.
Which made it even worse.
The giant finally stepped forward, looming like a mountain preparing to avalanche.
"Who the hell are you supposed to be?" he growled.
Gale tilted his head and placed a hand on his chest, mock-offended. "We'll get very well acquainted with each other soon enough..."
He took one more step forward, his expression turning sharp beneath the grin.
"Name's Harlow Gale."
A pause.
"...And as of now, I own each and every one of you fuckers..."
...
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