The guards' hands were like iron clamps, shoving them forward through the dank, dripping darkness of a stone corridor that smelled of wet earth and old fear. The violent sickness from the Tangena nut still churned in their guts, making every stumble a fresh wave of nausea. The rough bonds had been cut from their wrists, leaving angry red marks that sang with pain.
The darkness ended abruptly. They were thrust forward into a vast, open space, and the sheer scale of it stole their breath.
They stood on the sandy floor of a colossal, circular pit. Walls of ancient, water-smoothed stone soared upward on all sides, curving inward to form a domed ceiling fifty meters above. Vines, pale and sickly from lack of true sun, straggled down from cracks. High above, narrow openings let in shafts of hazy, dust-moted light, illuminating the arena in a grim, twilight glow. Carved into the stone around the upper rim were endless rows of empty benches, a silent audience of ghosts. This was no simple oubliette. This was a colosseum, buried in the heart of the island like a fossilized heart.
Directly across from them, set into the rock face, was an ornate balcony box. There, enthroned on a smaller replica of her bone-chair, sat Queen Ranava. The dim light caught the white of her painted lips and the silver of her sea-krait skull crown. She looked down upon them not with rage, but with the cool, detached interest of a patron at a rare zoological exhibition.
A heavy metal grate slammed shut behind them, the final clang echoing with terrible finality.
From a shadowed entrance beneath the Queen's balcony, General Bomba strode into the arena. His white uniform was a glaring flag of authority against the grey sand. In his hands, he casually carried their weapons. With a contemptuous flick of his wrist, he tossed them onto the ground before the trio—Galit's Vipera Whips coiled like sleeping serpents, Atlas's dual Chui maces, and Jannali's collapsed spear Anhur's Whisper and her set of Echo Boomerangs.
The weapons landed in the sand with soft thuds.
Jannali stared, then at the General, her confusion boiling over into sheer frustration. "What the hell, mate? You nick our gear, drag us through the seven circles of this bloody silent asylum, and now you're giving them back? Is this your version of good customer service?"
General Bomba ignored her sarcasm. His voice, amplified by the pit's acoustics, was a flat, demanding gong. "The location of the demon. The fire-wielder. Your final chance to speak before the Ancestors demand their entertainment."
Jannali shook her head, her afro bouncing with the motion. A weary, defiant smirk played on her lips. "Like I told you before, you're off your rocker. Completely doolally. We're traders, not demon wranglers. Your 'Ancestors' need better sources."
The General's eyes, like chips of black flint, studied them. "So you claim ignorance? So be it. The judgement is in the survival. Or the lack thereof."
He turned and walked back into the shadows beneath the Queen's box, leaving them alone in the vast, silent arena.
The three pirates stood frozen for a moment, then scrambled for their weapons. The familiar weight in their hands was a small, vital comfort. They huddled together, their backs forming a tight triangle as they scanned the towering, empty walls.
"How long," Atlas muttered, his lynx ears twitching, swiveling to catch any sound beyond their own breathing, "do you reckon until Marya figures out we're not just browsing the market?"
"Nah!" Jannali cut him off, her voice sharp. The word echoed in the pit. She flicked her wrist with a practiced snap, and the segments of Anhur's Whisper shot out, locking together with a series of satisfying clacks until the full, dark sea-stone tipped spear was in her hand. "Not this time! I am not being the damsel waiting for a rescue again. I'm not some helpless chook." She planted the butt of her spear in the sand, her large brown eyes blazing. "I'm kicking this thing's arse, whatever 'this thing' is."
Galit felt a surge of fierce agreement. The indignity of the capture, the foulness of the ordeal, the arrogance of their captors—it all crystallized into a sharp point of resolve. He uncoiled his Vipera Whips, the sinewy lengths hissing as they brushed the sand. "Same. We handle this ourselves. Our fight. Our terms."
A wide, predatory grin split Atlas's muzzle, his blue eyes beginning to glow with a faint, building charge. The spots on his rust-red fur seemed to darken. "Now you're talking my language."
The decision, the defiant spark, was snuffed out an instant later.
From the dark entrance where General Bomba had disappeared came a sound. It started as a low, grinding rumble, like boulders tumbling deep in the earth. It grew, rising in pitch and volume into a deafening, shrieking ROAR that tore through the cavernous space. It was the sound of ancient hunger, of a predator pulled from the deepest fossil bed, furious and ravenous.
The air itself seemed to tremble. Fine sand trickled from the walls.
Slowly, as if moving through cold syrup, the three pirates turned.
Emerging from the gloom was a nightmare given flesh. It stood on two powerful, muscular legs, its body lean and built for terrifying speed. Scales the color of dried blood and old bruises covered its form. But it was the head that stole all reason. It was a predator's skull elongated into a horror. Its jaws were lined with serrated teeth, but at the very front, protruding straight forward like a bundle of ivory daggers, was a set of four long, horizontal fangs. They looked less like teeth and more like the barbed tips of fishing spears, designed not to crush but to snatch, to impale, to staple prey in place. A cold, reptilian eye fixed on them. It gave a jerk of its stiff tail, sending a cloud of sand into the air, its body coiling like a spring.
Jannali's mouth went dry. All her bravado condensed into a single, breathless whisper. "What the bloody hell is that?"
Atlas, his earlier grin frozen, managed to find his voice, laced with a dark, ironic humor. "What was it you were saying about not wanting a rescue?"
Galit's mind, his greatest weapon, raced. The forward-facing fangs… a unique hunting adaptation. Not a bludgeoner. A precision striker. A disabler. He cracked his whips in the air, the twin reports a sharp challenge. "Forget rescue. It's three against one. We adapt. We trap it. Jannali, you're range and distraction. Atlas, you're the hammer. I'll try to bind its legs."
"Its legs?" Jannali hissed, her eyes darting between the monstrous dinosaur and the eerily still Queen above. "I'm more worried about those front-end skewers!"
Above them, Queen Ranava stood. She placed her slender, white-painted hands on the balcony's stone railing. She did not speak, did not cheer. She simply nodded her head once, a regal, awful signal.
Begin.
Jannali's eyes shot from the dinosaur to the Queen and back. A cold realization dawned. "Bloody hell," she breathed.
"What is it?" Atlas growled, his fur beginning to stand on end, tiny arcs of blue Electro sparking between the hairs.
Jannali jerked her head toward the balcony. "Reckon that overgrown goanna is her lapdog General. Makes a sick kind of sense, doesn't it? All that quiet, then all this… noise." She hefted her spear.
Galit's jaw tightened. "Devil Fruit. Ancient Zoan. Of course." The General's rigid posture, his aggressive, forward-thrusting demeanor—it was all a clue to his savage other self.
The Masiakasaurus did not give them more time to think. With a second, ear-splitting roar that promised evisceration, it charged. It was shockingly fast, a blood-colored blur covering the sandy distance with terrifying, ground-eating strides. Those horrible forward-facing teeth were aimed like a bundle of lances.
"SCATTER!" Galit roared.
The trio exploded into motion, their unity shattered by the necessity of survival. The pit of the Ancestors, silent for who knew how long, was now filled with the thunder of a prehistoric hunt.
*****.
The humid, resin-scented air of Vintana Cove was split by a low, electric hum as the Consortium's submarine—a sleek, dark vessel of brushed steel and silent propulsion—slid into an empty dock with a grace that felt alien among the creaking wooden ships. The hatch hissed open, and Aurélie Nakano Takeko emerged first, a statue of monochrome severity against the chaotic backdrop of the hanging port. Her silver hair, worn loose as always, caught the dim light filtering through the cavern ceiling. Her hand rested on the cursed hilt of Anathema at her hip.
Bianca Yvonne Clark practically bounded out after her, her waist-length black hair escaping its messy bun, a pencil lodged behind her ear. She pushed her magnifying goggles up onto her forehead, her eyes, sharp and hungry, scanning the dock. They landed on the submarine at Dock 15. It was a vessel she knew intimately, its lines and modifications a story only she could read. Its hull was scarred with recent, strange damage—pitted marks that looked like acid burns and deep gouges that spoke of collisions with things that had no business in the Blue Sea.
"Like, yo," Bianca breathed, the casual slang stark against her focused expression.
Aurélie followed her gaze, her steel-gray eyes narrowing. A single, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of her mouth was the only sign of satisfaction. "Confirmation."
From the hatch, Charlie Leonard Wooley emerged, adjusting his pith helmet and brushing non-existent dust from his crisp khaki shorts. "Ahem! Is this the designated point of disembarkation? The atmospheric readings indicate a 78% humidity quotient, which is, frankly, ruinous for parchment." His satchel, bursting with scrolls, threatened to spill its contents onto the dock.
"We like, found her," Bianca said, a real smile breaking through her engineering intensity.
Charlie froze, then scrambled to the railing, leaning out so far his helmet nearly toppled into the water. "Where? Cite your coordinates! Is she proximate? What is the local cultural context? Charlie demands a situational report!"
Bianca pointed a grease-stained finger, her colorful chipped nail polish a bright spot in the gloom. "Look. That's one of our vessels. The core modulation on the aft thruster is my work. The reinforcement on the conning tower is, like, totally a Consortium patch job."
Charlie squinted. "What in the seven seas are they doing to it? That appears to be a coating process, but the substrate is non-standard! It has a refractive index wholly unlike Yarukiman resin!"
"It appears," Aurélie said, her voice a low murmur that still cut through the dock's noise, "that it is being prepared for a specific journey. The craftsmen here possess specialized knowledge." She turned her head, her silver hair swaying. "We dock. We speak to the shipwrights. They will know her location."
A clap of startling, childish glee echoed from the hatch. "Oh, goody! Does this mean we get to make new friends? Bang-bang friends?" Ember "The Pyre" emerged, a splash of chaotic color in her tattered black-and-crimson Lolita dress. Her neon-pink space buns seemed to defy gravity, and her mismatched eyes—one blue, one Syndicate-gold—darted around with manic curiosity. She clutched her charred plush rabbit, Mr. Cinders, to her chest.
Bianca groaned internally. "I, like, really hope she snaps out of this real soon."
They made their way to the largest workshop, a cavernous space that smelled of hot metal, pine tar, and the peculiar, honey-sick scent of Amber-Iron Resin. The door, fashioned from a ship's salvaged rudder, had a small bell attached. It gave a tired, metallic jangle as they entered.
The scene inside was one of ordered industry. The massive form of Mark Bridger Linder-Bos was a landmark behind his giant drafting table, his mutton-chop sideburns glowing in the light of a nearby furnace. He didn't look up from his ledger, his giant quill scratching steadily.
Ember took two steps in, blinked, and then convulsed in a sudden, wet cough. She doubled over, dropping Mr. Cinders. When she straightened, the manic gleam in her eyes had vanished, replaced by a profound, weary confusion. She looked at her hands, at her dress, at the strangers around her with the dawning horror of someone waking from a long, terrible dream. "What…? Where… is this?"
Everyone stared. Bianca's eyebrows shot up. "Whoa. Like, good. Welcome back."
"Later," Aurélie said, the word leaving no room for argument. Her eyes were fixed on the shipwright.
Mark Bridger finally put his quill down with a definitive tap. He looked up, his furnace-squinted eyes taking in the bizarre quartet: the stoic swordswoman, the excited engineer, the pedantic explorer, and the now-confused, brightly-dressed girl. "Can I help you?" His voice was the grind of stone on stone.
Charlie cleared his throat with a loud, practiced "Ahem!" and stepped forward, adjusting his pith helmet. "Yes, indeed. We are seeking the individual or individuals who own the submarine currently undergoing your coating process at Dock 15. We have pressing academic—erm, maritime—business with them."
Mark's heavy brow furrowed. He leaned back, the chair groaning in protest. "You looking to have some work done? I've got a fresh batch of resin. Quality stuff."
Charlie shook his head vigorously. "No, sir, we are not currently in the market for hull treatments. We are pursuing a purely informational—"
"Can't help you then," Mark said, turning his broad back to them and pretending to examine a blueprint. "I don't deal in information. I deal in hull integrity and keeping folk from getting shredded on the Razor Reefs. It's a simple transaction."
Bianca hopped forward, her hands moving in expressive arcs. "So, like, what if we did want a coating? You coat our sub, and then you, like, tell us what you know? A two-for-one special?"
Mark half-turned, a glint of pragmatic interest in his eye. "I'd consider it. Business is business. Good resin shouldn't go to waste."
Aurélie stepped forward now, her movement silent and fluid. She placed a hand on the table, not threateningly, but with a finality that drew his full attention. "The submarine can use a coating. You are hired. Your terms: coating for information. Do we have an accord?"
Mark studied her for a long moment, then gave a single, solid nod. "Alright then. You've got good timing. Just started that other sub today." He jerked a thumb toward the distant dock. "Will be done in about two more days. We can do yours same way, same schedule. You'll be twins." He began scribbling in his ledger again.
"Did they," Charlie interjected, unable to help himself, "mention their temporary place of lodging? A local inn, perhaps? A designated camp?"
Mark didn't look up. "Not much for 'lodging' around here. Most outsiders with sense sleep on their ships. If they're not on it, your best bet's the beach. Not my business to track customers once they leave my dock." He finally glanced up. "You got a transponder snail?"
Bianca patted a bulky pouch on her multitool holster. "Like, yeah."
"Good. I'll have it call you when we're ready to start scraping your hull. Don't wander into the deep jungle. Gets… peculiar." He said the last word with the weight of personal experience.
As they filed out, the bell jangling behind them, Ember walked in a daze, her lucidity a fragile, quiet thing. Bianca was already muttering about hull stress points and the odd resin composition. Charlie was pontificating to no one about "the impertinence of provincial craftsmen!" Aurélie's gaze swept the busy cove, then lifted to the towering stone staircase that led to the silent, fortified city above. The trail was warm. The shipwright had what they needed. And in two days, both submarines would be ready.
The hunt was entering its final, quiet phase.
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