Gale walked alone through the shadow-cloaked remains of what was once a commercial hub, but now looked more like a post-apocalyptic playground for organized crime. He'd already dropped off Peterman halfway back—literally dropped him off.
The man was duct-taped to a lamppost near a Marine patrol station, a note stapled to his vest reading:
"Gift-wrapped for justice. —G"
Now, though, he was in a different kind of territory.
One glance told him this area hadn't seen a single government-issue boot in a while. Walls were graffitied with crude messages, windows shattered and patched over with scrap metal, and every alley had the subtle stench of unlicensed business ventures.
He didn't mind the ambiance, really. Gave the place... character.
He came to a crooked intersection and stopped when something caught his eye.
A tall sign made from sheet metal had been jammed into the ground, scrawled in red paint:
"MARINES NOT WELCOME — YOU DIE, NO REFUNDS."
Beside it, hanging from rusted chains, was a skeleton slumped in a sun-bleached Marine coat. The bones had long since dried, but someone had thoughtfully added sunglasses to the skull and slipped a cigar between its teeth.
"Cheeky bastards," Gale muttered, chuckling. "Gotta give 'em points for presentation."
He walked past, hands in pockets, not even pretending to be subtle. Not in a place like this.
"Guess that's what happens when customers wear white suits and ride slaves like prize ponies," he muttered under his breath. "Even human traffickers suddenly grow a pair or two..."
The buildings thinned out as he moved deeper, and the air grew hotter—humid and sticky from the nearby mangrove roots that pierced the land like giant stone fingers. He vaulted up a fallen wall, then hopped across a collapsed balcony like he was skipping stones.
Occasionally, a face would peer from the shadows, but none dared step out. Whether that was caution or good judgment, he didn't know. Probably both.
Finally, he reached it.
Rising over the flatland, perched on a massive, snaking root, stood a building like no other in this dump. A long, weather-worn staircase wound up the mangrove root, leading to a domed structure that looked like someone had tried to build a fancy observatory using scrap and pirate dreams.
The front was circular, and a rectangular attachment jutted from the back like an afterthought.
And above the rounded entrance, hanging slightly askew, was the iconic sign:
"Shakky's Rip-Off Bar."
The letters were half-faded, and moss crept around the corners like it was trying to swallow the shame.
Gale let out a short laugh. "Well... at least you know exactly what you're getting here."
He started up the staircase, boots tapping lightly against the warped steps. He passed a drunk passed out two-thirds of the way up—some poor sod curled up under a tarp, muttering in his sleep about a "smiling skeleton with a sword."
"He either crossed the Florian Triangle on his way here or had way too much to drink," Gale said, stepping over him.
As he reached the landing, he paused to brush some dust off his coat and straighten his collar.
As Gale began to open the door, hand halfway through the motion—he froze.
From inside, a voice exploded with righteous fury:
"Hundred thousand beri for a bowl of stew?! Are you outta your damn mind?!"
It was a man, probably a pirate judging by the accent—rough, half-drunk, and overly confident in his ability to shout his problems away.
Another voice replied, this one calm, feminine, and deeply unimpressed:
"You already drank three bottles of rum and ate everything short of the table legs. You pay what's due."
Gale tilted his head. That voice. Smooth like silk, but with the kind of threat buried in it that said "I've handled worse than you while doing my nails."
The pirate snapped back.
"If you think I'm payin' a single beri for this rip-off, you—"
THUD.
Something heavy slammed against a wall.
Gale casually took one step back from the door—not because he was worried, but because he'd played this game before. It wasn't the kind of bar you walked into.
It was the kind you waited to see if the bar would explode before you got through the door.
Sure enough, a split second later—
CRASH!
A whole pirate launched through the window to the left of the entrance like a sack of disgraced potatoes, hitting the ground with a wet thump. He groaned once, then did a very good impression of a man reconsidering every choice that led him here.
Gale smirked.
"Yep. Definitely not in the wrong place..."
With a satisfied breath, he opened the door and stepped inside.
The air smelled like spilt rum, old wood, and fried something. A jukebox in the corner warbled out an old jazz tune—though Gale suspected the thing hadn't been plugged in for a decade. Probably just haunted.
Front and center, right in front of a now-shattered window frame, was her.
Shakuyaku—better known as Shakky—was crouched over the unfortunate pirate from earlier, one fist gripping his shirt collar, the other rhythmically introducing itself to his face like it had a grudge to settle.
"—and that'll be another five hundred thousand beri for the window your friend just broke," she said sweetly, punctuating the line with a final smack that made the floor creak.
Gale raised an eyebrow and cleared his throat.
Shakky didn't even look up. She just started rifling through the pirate's pockets like she was looking for loose change in a couch cushion.
"Welcome to Shakky's Rip-Off Bar. I'm Shakky," she said lazily. "If you're here for a drink or something to eat, take a seat. I'll be with you shortly."
Gale kicked his feet up on the table—carefully avoiding the suspicious red stain on the wood—and leaned back with the kind of practiced laziness that made it look like he hadn't just wandered through a pirate-infested slum full of skeleton warnings and overpriced stew.
He drummed his fingers on the booth's edge and gave the cracked menu a glance.
"Too rich for my blood," he said casually, waving off the laminated atrocity that listed rum prices in five-digit numbers. "I'll pass on the food and drink."
Shakky raised an eyebrow without looking up from shaking down her unfortunate customer.
"I'll take a business partner instead."
Now that got her attention.
She stopped mid-pocket rummage and slowly stood, brushing her hands off on her apron like she wasn't just mugging a man ten seconds ago. Her gaze turned toward Gale, studying him with a sharpness that could cut through three layers of fake ID and a hangover.
Her expression was unreadable for a beat… then her eyes lit with quiet recognition.
"Ah," she said. "You're that marine I saw in the papers a while back. Harlow Gale, right?"
Gale gave a little two-finger salute, still lounging like a man with absolutely nothing to hide.
"The one and only."
Shakky smirked, reaching into her apron pocket and pulling out a cigarette. She lit it with a match that sparked against the buckle of her belt, taking a slow drag as she leaned against the bar.
"What kind of business," she asked, smoke curling around her words, "does a Marine captain have with the owner of a rundown bar?"
Gale shrugged, his voice light. "Not much. But if that bar owner also happens to be one of the most well-connected information brokers in the Archipelago... then suddenly, I've got plenty."
Shakky chuckled, flicking ash into the pirate's open mouth. He groaned. She didn't care.
"So you didn't wander in here by accident, huh?"
"Wasn't here for the atmosphere," Gale said. "Though the décor's really coming along. Love what you've done with the broken furniture and bloodstains."
She gave a lazy laugh and jerked her thumb toward the bar stools. "Alright, Captain. I'll hear you out."
Gale's face turned a little more serious—just a touch. He leaned forward, voice lowering so it wouldn't carry past their booth.
"I've been dispatched by Marine HQ to bring Sabaody to heel. Make it 'safe.' Whatever that means."
Shakky's lips twitched, like she'd heard this speech before. She didn't interrupt.
"But," Gale continued, "even if I burn every den to the ground and arrest every thug with a bounty over 100 beri, nothing changes. The gangs I crush today? They'll be replaced by new ones tomorrow. Same as it's always been."
He trailed off for a moment, fingers tapping against the table again. Then he looked up, expression wry.
"So instead… I'm going to take over the local gangs."
There was a beat of silence.
Shakky blinked.
Then she burst out laughing—just a short, dry snort of a laugh that said "you're either a genius or suicidal." Probably both.
"Some Marine you are," she said with amusement, taking another drag from her cigarette.
"Don't tell anyone," Gale said deadpan. "They still think I read the manual back in HQ."
Shakky grinned, teeth showing now.
"Alright, Captain. You've got my attention. What do you want from me?"
Gale shrugged, a lazy roll of the shoulders like he was just spitballing a weekend project and not proposing a shadowy criminal restructuring of the most notorious criminal hub in the Blues.
"Like I said," he began, "I want to take over the local gangs."
He let that hang in the air, deadpan, before continuing.
"Get them to stop kidnapping tourists and auctioning off civilians like exotic pets. Y'know—rebrand. Turn their attention toward something more productive."
Shakky raised a brow, and Gale gestured vaguely, as if the specifics weren't entirely the point.
"I don't know… bounty hunting? Smuggling? Scamming the occasional noble? Look, I'm flexible. As long as they stop being monsters and start being manageable criminals."
He sighed and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head.
"Problem is, I can't be seen doing any of that myself. Kind of hard to run the underworld when you've got a Marine badge pinned to your coat. Makes the den meetings a little awkward."
He looked over at her, serious again.
"I need someone to handle the lowlives in my stead. Someone strong. Not opposed to… dirt under the fingernails. But trustworthy."
He paused, then added with a wry grin, "To some extent, at least. I'm not looking for saints, I'm looking for sharks who don't eat the customers."
Shakky had gone still during his pitch, the only movement being the slow, practiced drag of her cigarette. Her eyes were narrowed, thoughtful, weighing not just his words, but the man saying them.
After a long moment, she exhaled smoke in a lazy curl and muttered,
"That's a tall order, Captain."
Gale didn't argue. He just waited.
She flicked ash into a chipped cup and finally said, "You realize if you pull this off—even indirectly—you'd be screwing with the human trafficking business."
Her tone had lost the usual playful edge. It was quieter now, a little heavier.
"And I might know someone who'd be very interested in doing just that."
Gale leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Oh?"
Shakky gave him a slow smirk, like a fox sniffing opportunity. "But, naturally… what's in it for me?"
Gale grinned. He'd been expecting that question since he stepped into the bar.
"I've got ten million beri saved up. Can hand it over right now if that's what you want."
He reached casually for his coat like he had it tucked in there with a sandwich.
"Or…"
He paused for dramatic effect.
"You can work with me. Feed me info. Help me manage things behind the scenes. You get a cut of the profits and first dibs on who gets buried when things get messy."
Shakky's eyes gleamed like a cat's in low light, and her grin stretched a bit wider.
"Business partners it is, then."
She stepped around the bar, slipping something from her sleeve—a den den mushi as sleek and compact as her poker face.
"Give me your contact details. I'll call when it's time."
Gale handed over a small transponder snail with a bored expression and a truly stupid-looking mustache drawn on its shell.
Shakky looked at it. Looked at him.
"Really?"
"I wanted it to look like me," he said with a shrug. "The mustache adds gravity."
She chuckled softly and tucked it away, cigarette still dangling from her lips.
"I'll set up a meeting. Don't be late, Captain."
Gale stood, stretched, and tossed a final look at the unconscious pirate still twitching near the bar.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
And with that, he turned and walked out into the chaos of Sabaody, already thinking about how to start building a criminal empire without getting court-martialed.
...
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