Badger Kaizoku-dan: Kingdom of Oz Arc

[Archer]

This is my and Jimmy's One Piece based Fanfic. That's pretty much all you need to know, except that this Arc is going to be entirely written by me. Enjoy ^_^;

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Badger Kaizoku-dan

The Kingdom of Oz Arc
Prologue: A Dark and Stormy Night[/center]

A pair of weary eyes peered into the night’s sky over the rim of a tankard, looking listlessly through the steamy, rain-battered window as the ale sank pleasantly down the man’s gullet. Wiping an escaping dribble of the booze from his wiry beard using his sleeve, Captain Horatio Badger placed his mug back on the side of the bar, and swivelled on his stool to face his eager-eyed first mate, Arachna D. Seth.

“So Half-Pint, what’s the situation?” he said, placing his now unburdened hand upon the scruffy, torn up leg of his trousers. Seth’s eyes rolled back into his head for a moment; half in sincere thought about what had happened to the rest of the crew, and half in wonderment of why he was being called Half-Pint by a man who was at least an inch shorter than him. After a slight pause, his thoughts gathered themselves in a way which was more or less comprehensible.

“Well Cap’n, Vince is currently crying in his cabin,” he started, glancing momentarily out of the window, the Tanuki-Go barely visible as it bobbed gently just above the coastline, “I think he muttered something nasty about hormonal gorillas and raw fish and slammed his door shut.”
“So, how is Boboette?” Badger quickly inquired.
“Oh, she’s having her ‘lady times’,” Seth replied, completely oblivious to the implications behind this euphemism; ‘lady times’ is just what Badger had told him to call it when Boboette had nearly removed his arm from its socket, “and I think she may have got into the food storage rooms…”

Badger practically growled. “It’s never gonna be simple, is it?” he muttered, before returning to the matter at hand, “And what about the others?”
“Oh, everyone else is exploring the town. Except Locke. He’s sat just outside the door, said he’d keep an eye out in case any Marines show up. Plus, I think he likes the rain. Doesn’t get much chance to feel water anymore…”
“Hmm, the new bounty posters are gonna make things tougher from here on out…” Badger said, sliding a few slips of paper across the bar towards himself, and then lifting them up to thumb through their contents. “Last Man Standing” Horatio Badger, Wanted Dead or Alive. “Scorpion Tail” Arachna D. Seth, Wanted Dead or Alive. “Artiste” Vince Van Monasso, Wanted Dead or Alive. It was the same old shit, just some new names.

The bounties had taken their sweet time being published, though. Badger had initially thought they’d come from the incidents over the last few islands, as well as general piracy, but after thinking it over this idea became void; after all, only the three of them had bounties at this stage. And that fact brought the origin of these bounties all the way back to the battle with the 5th Brigade; Badger, Seth and Vince were the only 3 to survive that encounter, and that was at least 2 months past now. It must’ve needed a more public event to make the bounties valid, but these posters had the stench of Hadjuh all over them. For a moment, his mind wandered to the first time these posters had been seen…

Vince came bursting into the room, eyes aglow with a feeling that could only be associated with recognition: “Captain!” he exclaimed, “We’ve got a fanbase! This young man here asked me to make him posters for his special collection! Take a look at these!”
Badger glanced down at the portraits of himself, Seth and Vince that his cartographer had laid down in front of him. “Not bad…” he muttered, “Not bad at all. Who did you say these were for?”
At that moment, a Marine marched promptly past them, pinning three browning pieces of paper onto a notice board. The images matched perfectly.
“Vince, you’re an imbecile…”
“Yessir, but an imbecile that looks damn fine for B50,000,000!”
Badger grunted, “Well, better get out of here before this Marine puppy realises we’re he—“

“…Grant any wish he’s presented with; anything at all!”

Badger’s trip down memory lane was cut short as he heard this snippet of information leaking from a hushed conversation. The bar they were in was not overly populated, so a wanted piece of information could easily flow into every corner of the room. His eyes widened at the possibilities this fact could bring about if true; unwittingly, Badger had just been pushed one step closer to his dream.

Bursting from his seat like a bullet from a rifle, Badger took the distance in three simple strides, before slamming his palm down on the table where an old man was talking to a wide eyed traveller in what they had thought was secrecy. Turning his attention firstly to the younger boy, Badger’s eyes seemed to flair with the fires of hell.
“Scram.” He said, his voice underlined with menace, only enforced by the poster visible beneath his fingers. The man didn’t need telling twice.
Taking the now empty seat, Badger looked up to the man who was telling the stories.

“I believe, Sir, that you have some information that has grasped my interest.”
“So it does,” the old man replied, a wide smile revealing a mouth containing far fewer teeth than was usual, “I think this may interest you, also.”
From the hidden regions of his cloak, he withdrew a shrivelling piece of parchment, rolled into a cylinder of fraying paper. Passing it to Badger, he unrolled it and peered warily into it’s contents.

To the bottom right corner of the map, just where the image of the land ended and a set of co-ordinates lay resting, the name was displayed in ornate writing; “The Kingdom of Oz.”

“Oz?” Questioned Badger, “OK, I’m intrigued. Do continue, kind sir.”

To be Continued…

[Archer]

Chapter 1: Pirates, Whirlpools, and other sea-bound Phenomena

The sun was high in the midday sky as the waves lapped gently at the prow of the Tanuki-Go. The occasional school of fish darted past its dark oak frame, sometimes leaping from the water for a breath of fresh, unnecessary air before diving down once more to the deep, droplets of water dancing around them in merriment. The wind was soft; not inexistent, but not strong enough to entirely fill the ships cream-coloured sails, gently pulling the ship along the surface of the water, with the pirate flag of the Badger Kaizoku-dan fluttering lazily overhead.

The shape of the ship was a little unorthodox, though efficient; the stern was flat, although curving slightly at the top just before a white, wooden fence protruded upwards from it, preventing as many ship-goers as possible from falling overboard. The sides curved outwards gently, the centre of the ship wider than the stern, before curling around to a joined point at the prow, the lightly coloured keel visible in contrast to the dark wood of the frame, following the join of the sides all the way to the figurehead, rings of light and dark wood curving around to form the striped shape of a racoon’s head.

The deck was split into three sections; the foremost of which spanned half the length of the ship, set slightly down from the sides, made of plain wooden planks. In the centre of this section, an inset circle lay, roughly 50ft across, its sloped sides stepped, giving an effect somewhat similar to a miniature coliseum. Finally, half way along the length of the ship, a wall jutted out at an angle, stepladders laying either side of a thick wooden door, allowing entrance to the cabins within the ship, and a heightened level from which the mast rose into the sky, and the wheel lolled gently this way and that.

On this particular day, the deck seemed somewhat barren; most of the crew were below-deck, except for two solitary crewmates. In the crow’s nest, the form of a bulky, sleeping gorilla lay alone, wrapped around the tip of the mast, the sun’s rays sinking into her black fur, eyes sealed shut beneath a drooping pink ribbon. Occasional, she would rub a weary hand over her face, pulling a lip down her face to check for any remaining scraps of food.

The only other crewmember visible on deck was Locke, the hammerhead shark Fishman, as he lay on the figurehead, legs drooping over the racoon’s eyes, webbed feet yearning in vain for the water splashing beneath. His muscular arms were crossed over his toned chest, his dark grey skin lightened by the sun’s rays, a pair of frayed denim jeans were the only cloths upon his body. His mouth was closed in a slight grimace, the eyes either side of his peculiarly shaped head half closed, his pupils staring down at the planks of the deck behind him.

However, this serene scene was not to remain for too long, as a nearby creak gave away the opening of the trap-door, lying in the middle of the arena. The vibrations of footsteps buzzed across the frame of the ship, each time more vigorous than the last. Locke growled silently, knowing even before he arrived which of his nakama was approaching.

“Hey, Buuuuuhddy!” came the voice of Arachna D Seth, soon to be followed by his face entering Locke’s line of vision, goofily grinning as usually, and his black-tipped locks of scruffy white hair dangling haphazardly around his face. Laying flat against the deck, Seth’s orange, open-chested shirt fell clumsily to the ground, his sleeve falling in such a way as to momentarily reveal the scar running down his forearm. The ring on a string around his neck slid across his chest, finding itself a fold of cloth to curl up in.

“Not now, Human,” sneered Locke bitterly, “I’m not in the mood to tolerate your mindless optimism.”
“…Do you need a hug?”
“No, I don’t need a hug, you fucking moron. Just leave me be.”
Rolling to the side, Seth moved swiftly until he reached the side of the ship, and propped an arm against the wooden wall to propel himself to a standing position (which, for someone who’s easily 6’3”, is easier said than done.)

“Well, something’s obviously bugging ya, whatsup?” he said, his hand lazily scratching the scar on his arm as he turned to face the prone Fishman.
“It’s nothing you’d understand, Human. And anyway, when I had frustration before I met you lot, I used to enjoy going for a swim.”
Seth moved closer to Locke, his face pleading innocence as his voice rose in pitch by a few notes.
“Are you still going on about that? It’s not my fault; all I did was feed you that swirly looking fruit. You can’t exactly blame me if you gave up swimming after that.”
“It’s because of that fruit that I can’t swim anymore, you moron.”
“…Dude, you’re only ‘sposed to wait an hour…”

This last comment was the straw that broke the camel’s back, an already foul-tempered Fishman not taking this kind of mindless nonsense from the inferior species. Without breaking face, one of Locke’s massive arms whipped up from his torso, a webbed hand grabbing Seth’s slim- yet muscular- arm. Realising his impending situation, the boy could do little more than whimper as Locke’s arm snapped forwards, pulling the First Mate headfirst over the side of the ship. Through little more than battle instinct, however, Seth’s arm immediately reached out for a graspable object; the only thing it found was the thick-skinned grey ankle which dangled overboard.

Without time to realise what was happening, Seth dropped feet-first into the ocean, local fish scattering as the foreign body entered the water, soon to be joined by the flailing body of a Fishman, unwillingly dragged under the ocean’s surface, attempting to stroke his arms and legs in a suitable fashion before his energy was drained, and his limbs fell weak. Regaining his composure after having been initially thrown into the water, Seth soon dove down and grabbed the Fishman by the haunches; although it was a struggle, the Fishman easily weighing half a dozen stones more than him, he managed to pull them both to the thick rope net that hung over the starboard side of the ship.

Once above water, Locke’s energy flushed back into his body as if a plug was removed from his head, and the power was allowed to flow back into his being. Spitting a phlegm-filled wad of water back into the salty ocean, his eyes focussed on the scrawny boy in front of him.
“Rest assured, Arachna D Seth. One day, I will kill you.”

•••

The interior of the Tanuki-Go was somewhat simple; the walls were of a simple cream colour, similar to that of the lighter wood outside, with darker, polished boards lining the floor. In the centre of this room lay a long table, stools lined up evenly along each side, between two hatches linking this mess hall to a surrounding kitchen area, which surrounded the room in a horseshoe shape. At one end of the hall lay the hefty, wooden door which led out onto the deck. At the other sat Captain Horatio Badger.

Badger was slumped back in a large, ornate looking chair, red cushions padding out its rough, natural surface. His burly form fitted neatly in the chair, as if it was crafted to suit his image, his navy blue captain’s jacket sitting neatly on his shoulders, golden tassels and trinkets dangling loosely over its lapels and shoulders. Beneath it, his tattered white shirt clung to his muscular chest, tears and rips in the fabric of it and his blue trousers which ended in shreds, memorabilia from his former life which he would never discard.

To the left of his chair, a hatch-doorway hung open, a cord of rope tied tightly to a peg on the wall, keeping the stairway to the lower levels open. From below, Badger could hear the occasional splash and squeal as his cartographer worked on his latest piece, but one splash caught his ear more than others; the splash of water hitting the side of the ship, and the disgruntled sound of an angry Fishman.
“Seth, you moron…” he muttered to himself, before returning his attention to the task at hand. His eyes scanned from the wall over to the table below his chair, his chin resting naturally on his hand, fingers running through the black-and-white striped beard which melded seamlessly with his rugged, wild head of hair.

His eyes passed back and forth over four pieces of browning paper; three bounty posters, and an arcane map. Three familiar faces peered out of the paper at him, and one unfamiliar country lay in waiting. Badger gently stroked the hair of his beard, deep in thought. Combined, the crew now had a bounty of just over B210,000,000; this would surely attract money-hungry morons who thought such a total was unbefitting of its holders. Although they weren’t exactly in a hurry, they couldn’t waste time dealing with shitty bounty hunter after shitty bounty hunter.

His train of thought wouldn’t be allowed to fully progress to the station, however, before a rumbling sound of footsteps came from below; clattering as paintbrushes hit the ground, tearing sounds of canvas being ripped from their holdings. A few moments later, the frail form of Vince Von Monasso stumbled up through the open hatchway, splatters of dark purple ink dirtying his pale skin and rich blond locks; although these were still immaculately kept. His wiry fingers were wrapped around various canvases; one or two paint-covered brushes still resting between his knuckles. His usual baggy, blue jacket was hanging from his body, the collar upturned, shadowing his neck. The jacket itself was still quite neat, contrasting heavily with the beige trousers which were now a colour more similar to a patchwork elephant, dabs and drabs of different colours splashed hither and dither about them.

“Finished it, sir!” he said, his voice effeminate and excitable; a key tool to discerning how successful his artwork had been. With a brief, confused look, Badger glanced at his crewmate, then to the map lying on the table.
“But, I’ve had the original all this time.” He queried; wondering how Vince had managed to copy the map without looking at it during the entirety of his work.
“Oh, no need to worry about little facts such as vision, when one is creating artistic genius! I simply plucked the images from my mind.”
For once, Badger was rather impressed. His knowledge of art was somewhat lacking, but this skill seemed to interest him; it was certainly nothing Vince had displayed in the past.
“Alright; let’s have a look-see!” Badger said, wrapping the fingers of his right hand around a tankard of ale whilst reaching out for Vince’s map replica with the left.

Shuffling through the different pieces in his grasp, Vince finally pulled out the one he needed, the shimmering white paper giving off a completely different image than the dusty, decaying map on the desk. Badger’s lips wrapped around the edge of his tankard as he took a sip of his drink, before taking the paper from Vince’s hand and turning it, so that he could behold the image. No more than a moment later, a shower of ale and spittle burst from his mouth, covering map and mapmaker alike. Vince visually grimaced as the liquid sprayed forth; more, however, at the damage of his artwork than his shirt.

The map was as dissimilar to the original as the paper; where the island displayed on the original had a uniform, natural feel to it, this picture seemed like something more from a bad dream. Chunks of land had been lifted and rearranged, some rotated, to make something which looked more like a bear trap than an island. Some areas, instead of their simply representative browns and blues, were coloured red, purple, and yellow, colours completely unhelpful in a map of a country. The word “Oz” however was ornately crafted, the letters curling and curving magnificently, directly across the middle of the page.

“What the hell is this?! I asked you for a map, not a fucking Picasso!”
“What was that, sir?” Vince’s voice said, his tone somewhat lowered in a near threatening growl.
“I said I need a map, not a Picasso, you dullard!”
Vince’s face lightened almost immeasurably at this comment.
“Oh, good. I thought you said Pycisso; I would be distraught if you were to mistake my muse, Captain.”

Without thinking twice, Badger burst from his seat, his left hand grabbing Vince by the collar (crushing his ‘artwork’ in the process, the act of which made the artist audibly squeak), and the right slamming his tankard on the table end, and grabbing the original map. Thrusting the map into Vince’s grasp, making various artworks and supplies fall dramatically to the ground, before pulling the artist’s face close to his own.

“I expect you to do it properly this time, and if I even detect an intention to make it artsy, I’ll goddamn force you to keep Boboette company in her alone-time!”
With a shrill squeal of “Yes, Cap’n!”, Vince was sent flying clumsily down the stairwell by a boot from his captain’s foot. Letting out a heavy sigh, Badger reclaimed his ale and took another hefty sip.

“Uhh, Cap’n?” came the muffled voice of his First Mate from the deck, the sound suppressed by the thick wood.
“What?” came Badger’s curt reply.
“You know those things, um, when the water swirls round and round in circles and stuff?”
”A whirlpool, Seth, yes?”
”Yeaaaah… should we be in one of them right now?”

•••

When Badger threw the door open, causing a clatter of wood on wood from beside him, the view of the deck was quite dissimilar from that of mere moments before. Boboette had awoken from her doze in the Crow’s Nest, and had leapt down from the mast, grabbing one of the oars which were now leaning against the side of the ship in her leathery palms. Locke had already grabbed the other, rowing in the direction most beneficial to escaping the torrent of water slowly pulling the ship to a singularity of water. Seth, at a lack of knowledge on how to deal with this situation, was darting to and fro in small circles across the deck, eyes pleading for some sort of useful command from his captain.

Calmly assessing the situation, Badger turned to his crewmates.
“Locke, Boboette, keep the ship from going under. Seth, go get the sails up; this wind isn’t beneficial to us, it’ll only slow down our escape. We need to slingshot ourselves out of the whirlpools grip!”
“Yessir!” came the reply from Seth, darting immediately to the stepladder and beginning to scale the mast.

Badger moved to assist his crew, as another figure appeared upon the scene, walking lazily from the doorway, unaware of the current severity of the situation.
“What’s happening, boys?” came Mujina’s inquisitive tone, both Badger and Seth looking to behold her, before disaster struck.

A strong gust of wind blew overhead, catching perfectly in the sails and causing a sudden jarring in the ship’s movement. Badger managed to steady himself immediately; Seth fell cleanly off the mast and hit the surrounding fence with a crack. And while Locke and Boboette had the oars to support their weight in the movement, Mujina was not so lucky. Losing her footing, she stumbled clumsily to the side of the ship, lifting slightly off the ground so that her shin caught the wooden fencing, before she plummeted into the perilous waters below.

“Mujina!!” cried Badger and Seth in unison, before turning their respective heads, their eyes meeting across the deck. Before realising what was happening, another event unfolded, as Locke dropped his oar and placed one foot upon the side of the ship.
”I got ‘er!” he grinned, his Fishman instincts taking a higher priority than his common logic as he pushed his foot down, launching into an arc high into the sky before completing his beautiful, but inevitably woeful, dive beneath the waves.

“That idiot!” Badger cried, his eyes moving from Locke back to Seth as he saw his first mate about to follow suit.
“Don’t you DARE!” Badger shouted, Seth seemingly locked in place under his captain’s command, “We need you here, Seth, you worry about my daughter later!”
His face filled with unease, Seth lingered for a moment before reluctantly dragging himself away from the edge of the ship, leaping from the higher level to take up Locke’s slack.

Damnit, Badger thought, this isn’t good. We’ll just have to hope we get the Devil’s luck…
“Hold tight, men; We’re going under!”

At the other side of the whirlpool, a Sea Cow flailed helplessly in the whirlpool, its cry catching the ears of the frantic crew. As the ship span slowly and slowly towards oblivion, a cry of “Shotgun” came from the voice of Seth.
“You can’t call Shotgun on a goddamn sea co--“
”SHOTGUN!”
”Just row, damnit!”

[Archer]

Chapter 2: Descent into Oz

Films of foamy water covered every inch of the Tanuki-go’s sodden surface as the harsh seas tossed it this way and that, the Badger’s ship a new plaything, a device for the ocean’s amusement. The pirates aboard struggled to keep their balance as the deck tilted back and forth, trying their hardest to remain upright, in order to rescue themselves from their seemingly inevitable demise. With their taskforce halved (two crewmates overboard and one oblivious to the outside world, his ink-splattered cabin providing a solace against harsh reality), the three remaining crewmen were having difficulty keeping the ship afloat.

Grimy trails of sweat and rain ran along the handles of the oars, Badger’s fingers wrapped tightly around one, Boboette’s leathery palms on another, while Seth darted from place to place, tying down any loose items that were at risk of being lost to the storm. As the ship curved around its forced path, a sudden gust of wind blew across the deck; the door to the inner cabins swung open (nearly crashing into a pre-occupied Seth), pellets of water shooting off in all directions as it slammed against the wooden wall of the ship.

Almost as if the opening door was an invitation, the final onboard crewmember stumbled his way onto the deck, anger strewn across his features, a few sheets of canvas held delicately in his fingers.
“Will you ruffians keep it down; I am in the process of... creating...”
Vince’s sentence was cut short as his eyes widened at the situation the crew had found themselves in; the wind and rain beat at his face, his perfect hair cast aside by the raw power of nature. As he slowly shuffled back into the cabin, he almost jumped out of his skin as his captain’s head shot around, staring him directly in the eyes.

“And where do you think you’re going, Vince?” he growled.
His body quaking through fear-- both of his captain and of the scenario he was in- Vince’s fingers loosened; a single piece of paper escaping his grasp and fluttering on the wind across the deck of the ship. Before anyone could realise which piece it was, it had slapped directly across Badger’s face, that water plastering it to his features. Letting go of his post to peel the parchment away from his features, the ship gave a lurch to the starboard side; sinking with sudden sharpness further into the Whirlpool. A signature squeal from the ship’s artiste, and Vince had scurried besides his captain, tugging on the oar with all his weedy might to try and regain some control.

Badger’s eyes couldn’t help but scan over the map that lay in his hands, flecks of paper tearing away as it was berated by the harshness of the weather. Moments before it too was taken by the storm, an unusual symbol residing in one corner of the displayed island caught his eye; a spiral, with a cross at its centre.

•••

Badger’s eyes passed over a strange symbol in the corner of the map which the old man had handed to him, then continued to follow the curves and straights around the borders of the island shown. The land seemed to be of an average size for the islands in that region (which he had observed was relatively nearby, momentarily glancing at the co-ordinates on the bottom right).

Tearing his gaze up from the map, he looked back at the man in front of him, whose complexion was not entirely dissimilar to that of the paper he’d just parted with. Seth appeared on the scene, having realised where exactly his captain had gone, just as Badger inquired upon the old man once more:
“What exactly has this map got to do with wishes and desires?”

The old man smiled an un-toothy smile (the sight of which made Seth visibly shudder, muttering “Groooss...”). “It is merely local myth,” he started, giving the generic warning of anything that may sound unbelievable at first hearing, “but it is said that upon this Island resides a Wizard...”
It took a lot of Badger’s resolve not to snigger at this comment; although he himself was searching for the impossible, he had been brought up as a harsh realist; the idea of magic and wizardry was one that held no ground with him.
“Alright,” he quipped, “So, a Wizard on this island. What of it?”
“Well... some say that no wish is beyond his reach. Hundreds have gone in search of his talents, but none have returned with their lives...”

It was around now that Badger’s mind began to wander. From this point, the legend became little more than your average bar-tale, but the basis of this one intrigued him. Behind every tall-tale is a titbit of truth, and the nature of this one drew his attention. A means to the end of granting any wish? The idea was worth investigating at the very least. One hand placed across the map from the desk, the other placed on the back of his chair as Badger pushed himself up.
“Thank you for the tip, Old man. We’ll be leaving now, Seth.”

As Badger tensed his fingers, preparing to take the map with him to depart, the old man’s finger shot down on the centre of his hand.
“Just remember, good Captain,” the old man grinned, “that ‘X’ marks the spot!”

•••

As the final shards of sodden paper became a victim of the wind and rain, Badger’s eyes fell wide in a moment of realisation.
“’X’ marks the spot...” he murmured to himself. When the old man had muttered those selfsame words to him, he had assumed he meant the cross marked on the island itself; however, it seemed the crafty old crone was trying to pull a blinder on the pirate crew. It was no Wonder that none returned alive...

“Lads, all hands off deck!” he shouted, “Let the ship be taken into the whirlpool!”
“Are you mad?!” cried (literally, those aren’t just raindrops on his cheeks) Vince, his hands reluctant to release the oar handle, “We’ll be killed! And not in a nice, quiet way! Drowned, impaled on shrapnel of our own ship, you name it!”
For a moment, Badger was taken aback as unpleasant memories of his former life seeped into the corners of his mind. However, his resolve pulled him out of this dark spot almost instantaneously, returning him to the task at hand; the Descent to Oz.

“Just do as I say!” he replied, “and hold on to something. We’re going in... and where the hell is Seth?!”
From across the spiralling waters, there came the wail of an unhappy seafaring creature, as an unwanted passenger mounted it’s shoulders. The ship and the sea cow spiralled closer together, nearing the centre of the pool, as the voice of Arachna D. Seth called out from the sea-cow’s back:
“You said we were good to go, Cap’n!”

Before Badger could abuse and insult his first mate’s idiocy, the ship tilted in an unpleasant manner; they had reached the centre of the whirlpool. Arms wrapped around the mast, Badger could only afford a brief moment to glance into oblivion before the ship sunk, dragged into the depths by Mother Nature’s whim. As he looked, he saw a sparkle of light amidst the spray of colliding water. Excellent, he thought, it’d be too late to turn back now...

•••

Falling, falling, falling, for a moment that seemed like eternity, that’s all that there was in the world. But with a sudden onrush of light that bordered on blinding, the sound of splintering wood, and an almost inaudible scream which was generally assumed to be Vince, the ship’s movement came to a halt. Badger pushed himself to his feet, glancing around himself to find the ship in generally good condition.
“Sound off!” he shouted, making sure to account for all crewmembers. A disgruntled “Oogh!” from across the deck confirmed Boboette, a whining sound accounted for Vince, and the over-excited noises of anticipation of adventure he heard on the shore checked off Seth. Mujina and Locke, however, were going to prove more of a problem.
Logically, he thought, if they fell into the Whirlpool, they’ll’ve fallen somewhere here onto the island... and it’ll just be a matter of finding them.

“C’mon lads,” Badger said, placing one hand on the railing of the ship and vaulting over onto the Island below, “We’re heading out.”


Surrounding the coastlines for hundreds of metres lay plains of lush, green grass, swaying gently in a soft breeze. Beyond that, the frays of a thriving jungle melded seamlessly with the grassland, gargantuan trees shrouding the island’s secrets. From a gap between the tree trunks, light danced tantalizingly off a pair of golden eyes. With a rustle of leaves, a small figure disappeared back into the darkness.

[Archer]

Chapter 3: Midgets, Sugar and Crazy Paving

The four crewmates sat in a small circle upon the lush green grass, shadowed by the looming figure of their own ship. An earlier inspection of the Tanuki-go had revealed only superficial damage, the ship having landed with the majority of its form in the water, only small patches of the front of the hull scraping against the shoreline. Once they had cast anchor, Boboette and Vince followed their captain down to the shore, to join Seth on the grassland below.

Looking momentarily around, the landscape from this point seemed fairly simple; an ongoing field of emerald blades of grass swayed in the gentle breeze, situated neatly between the azure ocean, and an ominously dark forest that lay before them. Above them, a sky of sapphire blue light danced gleefully; an impossible effect of water in the heavens. Looking down from this wondrous sight, Vince questioned the undoubtedly wisest of the assembled pirates.
“So what’re we dealing with?” he asked, his voice yearning for an explanation.

Boboette tilted her head quizzically, a small clump of grass lolling lifelessly from the corner of her mouth, as one finger squirmed at the irritation of a bug that had climbed into her ear.

Badger, seemingly unaware of Vince’s lack of respect, answered for her:
“To me, it looks like this whole place is in an underwater bubble of some kind...” he said, displaying obvious uncertainty, alongside an underlying note of understanding, “We came down through a Whirlpool, so it only makes logical sense that way.”
Whilst completely in the knowledge that “logical sense” was at best a loose way of describing their situation, in this world of mass piracy, Devil’s Fruit and supposed Wizardry, it seemed the best means of description.

Stroking his beard for a moment, he glanced around at his fellow crewmates, at his ship, and at their surrounding environment. Seemingly decided, he placed one palm flat against the ground, and lifted himself up onto his feet in one sharp push.
“Firstly,” he said, waiting expectantly for his nakama to arise (although obviously, none did immediately besides Seth, who may as well have been on his feet before the Captain), “we need to find Locke and my daughter.”

He reached down to his pocket, momentarily forgetting what had happened in the storm. Finding nothing but air therein, he let out a brief sigh.
“Vince, how far did you get remaking the map?” he queried.
“Only half finished, I’m afraid,” came the response, “If I hadn’t been so rudely interrupted and made to work manual labour, then I mi—“
“Shut up, and go and get it. Seth, kit up.”
For a moment, he stared around aimlessly, kicking aside a few shattered planks as he walked back to the ship, before his eyes locked upon an opening in the forest’s wall...

•••

The walk across the grassy plains had been deceptively short; after returning to the ship and picking up their necessary belongings, the crew had set off immediately towards the forest. Badger took Vince’s semi-completed map replica in his hands, attempting to get some bearing on their location. Unfortunately, there was almost no indication as to where they might have landed after being thrust down by the whirlpool and the areas that had been recreated were almost entirely symmetrical, except for one, bright line that weaved a path from the left hand side to the centre.

Having entered the outer reaches of the forest, their mixed opinions on this venture were self evident. Badger took the front, eyes keenly aware for any sort of trap. Vince and Seth walked side-by-side behind him; Seth’s face aglow at the prospects that this unknown jungle held, while Vince’s sunken and sullen, misery plaguing his every feature; although this could simply be due to walking more than necessary. Boboette covered the rear, plodding gently along on all fours, twitching her leg occasionally as stray bits of tree lodged themselves in her fur.

It had been a while since any of the crew had spoken; so when Vince glanced at his wrist and attempted to address Badger with the words; “Captain, it’s almost three in the afternoon—I need my beauty nap!”, the whole crew found it surprising that after the first three words, he was cut short by a whistling, rustling sound from within the trees. The crew froze suddenly, senses stretching for any other sight or sound.

Vince turned to the right, just in time for the javelin to strike him directly through the chest.

From behind him, Seth moved forwards slightly, shirt and face covered with blue splatters. “Viiiince, you got you on me! Deal with it!” he whined, looking around him for the culprit causing his clothing conundrum (only not in as complicated language structure as that, he’s only a simple lad, bless him.)

With a slightly bewildered look on his face, Vince grabbed the handle of the weapon that was lodged through his body, and slowly pulled it out. Around the spot where a wound should be, there were simply ripples of dark blue fluid, which stained the weapon itself as it was unwillingly dragged from its target. The liquid hardened quickly as it met with the surrounding air, the blade now tinted a navy, purple colour, the coating extending to the point at which the blade had stopped, then simply extended in splatters down the handle.

From the surrounding agriculture emerged as many as twenty figures; although their advantage in numbers probably made up for their disadvantage in height. Each of the assembled men was, at most, 3 foot tall, although each of their faces bore an expression of pure, serious anger.
“What madness is this?” spoke the javelin thrower, picking up his weapon which Vince had discarded, staring at it quizzically.

"Behold, mortals, the power of the Sumi Sumi no Mi!" Vince cried, his fingers pointing into the shape of pistols as he readied his attack.
"Oh dear lord..." sighed Badger, "He's trying to look badass..."
And after this comment, all hell broke loose.

Ten of the pigmies launched themselves immediately at Vince, trying to take this new menace with as much force as possible. However, they’re hacks and slashes at his body with sword, axe or spear alike were in vain, as the targeted area simply burst into a shower of blue or purple ink (splattering the surrounding environment and/or people to an even further extent); in the process, Vince had taken his aim upon the one who had thrown the javelin in the first instance; his index fingers pointed straight at the miniature man, his thumbs cocked back like the flint of a pistol, all other fingers held tight against his palm. With a grin, and a noise that was somewhere between a splat and a bang, his thumbs cracked down against his hands, and two spherical globs of ink darted at incredible speed towards the small assailant.

The impact was similar to the sound; somewhere between a skull-cracking crash and a skin-slapping smack. The warrior was flung back by a few metres, before colliding head first with a nearby tree and sliding, unconscious, to the ground. Across is forehead, the word “Pwnd!” was stained in immortal blue ink.

While Vince was dealing with the majority, the other crewmembers still had a number of these pint-sized pirate-haters to deal with. Three had ran towards Seth, who was practically dancing on the spot, partially at the anticipation of a battle, which he had been deprived of for such a long time, and partially to try and dislodge the last few remnants of Vince from his hair. However, when the first of the attackers swung at his shins with a large-for-a-pigmy Axe, a few swift movements from the boy resulted in the weapon getting lodged in the nearest tree, and a floored midget, the point of Seth’s trusty spear pressing lightly against his neck.

Another three of the assailant were approaching Badger—understandably with slightly more caution, judging by the size difference between attacker and attackee. Brandishing their weapons towards him, sharply jabbing forwards and then pulling back, they approached their prey. Gently, Badger raised his right arm, reaching over his shoulder for one of the curved scabbards that hung there, readying himself for the use of the weapon that lay therein. However, at that exact moment, Boboette’s assailant was sent crashing at unhealthy speeds into a nearby tree, a sickening crunch accompanying her cry of success, as the tree’s foundations gave under the force, sending the column of wood striking down to the ground, directly on top of Badger’s assailants.

“Damnit,” he grinned, returning himself momentarily to calm, “That was lucky.”

•••

A number of minutes later, and the forest has once again returned to temporary peace. The Badger Kaizoku-dan sheathed their weapons or cancelled their abilities, and the assailing Pigmies had been restrained, many unconscious or heavily wounded, but all tied tightly to a single tree, their tightly packed pattern making it near impossible for any to move.

The one who had originally thrown the javelin was the closest to the pirates at this stage; his pronounced features, weary looks and battle scars indicating that he was most likely the leader. Badger bent down onto his haunches, hands placed squarely on his knees, as he looked the warrior face-to-face.
“So then, my pint sized little friend, who exactly are you boys?” he said, quietly and calmly.

A sense of pride filled the little man’s voice.
“We resemble the tribe of the Lollypop Guild,” he said, his face glowing as his mind filled with visions of wondrous glory, “the protectors of this Isle.”
“Lollypop Guild?” Seth said questioningly, “That doesn’t sound very fearsome or dangerous.” The leader’s eyes locked sharply on the first mate.
“Our kind is incredibly intolerant to sugars. To us, the Lollypop is a sign of death.”

Looking around the battlefield that was, his point was all the more validated. Besides the ones stained blue or purple from Vince’s power, all the weapons that were strewn around the area were had red and white striped handles or a swirl of bright, cheerful colours on their blades. Even the leader’s piercings in his nose and ears were patterned as such; upon his neck lay a tattoo of a candy bar with a red cross through it.

What Badger was more interested in, however, was what the man had just said.
“So what exactly on this Isle is worth protecting?” he questioned, his eyes lighting up at the possibility of some real truth behind his urban legend that brought them here. The warrior looked solemnly at the ground for a moment, before returning his eyes to the pirate captain’s.
“We are sworn to secrecy, but you have bested us in battle; therefore, we shall help you to what you seek.” Nodding his head as best he could, he indicated a slight clearing in the trees. “Follow that path, and you shall find the Yellow Road. Take it, and you shall find your answers.”

Looking sceptically at the clearing, Badger turned to his crew.
“Vince, go check it out. Seth, make sure these guys are tied up nicely... I wouldn’t want them feeling like we’ve pitied them at all.”
Vince set off into the clearing, muttering something about the lack of quality in the painting of this forest (regardless of the fact that it was, if only passively, mainly his fault), and Seth set about tightening the ropes that bound the Lollypop Guild. As he did so, the leaders of both sides smiled gently.

The sound of Vince’s squee could be heard for miles around. However, mistaking it for a cry of terror, the crew members immediately ran to find him, leaving the Pigmies to their own devices in the forest; as they left, a faint sound of childish laughter haunted them along their path.

When they arrived, they simply found their artist, sat in awe at the sight that lay before him. The path was bright to the point of shimmering, the colour ranging from yellow to orange to gold; slabs of the multi-toned rock lay here and there, cracks in the earth causing them to become the most peculiar of shapes as the road wound in and out of the trees.
“It’s... just like a Picasso...” muttered Vince, his eyes wide with awe of Nature’s beauty.

Badger sighed audibly. “May as well make a start then...” he said, as he placed his first foot down on the road to their goal.

•••

Locke awoke with a combination of a groan and a splutter. Slamming a grey fist against his chest, a spray of water bust from his lips, his lungs cleared of the unwanted fluid. He placed one webbed hand on the back of his head, rubbing gently along the right protrusion of his head, his side-mounted eyes darting around his unfamiliar immediate environment. The trees that surrounded him lay broken, shards of wood and blankets of leaves showing the path of their descents. Next to him, the frail body of a small girl lay unconscious. And worst of all, his body was wracked with pain, his head splitting as if it had just been hit with a four tonne bat.

“Damnit,” he muttered through bloody, water soaked teeth, “It’s just like that time in Loguetown...”

[Archer]

Chapter 4: Lions, Tigers and a Bear

Mujina awoke with the unfamiliar sensation of her normally straight, long, black hair (a single white lock falling graciously down her features) being plastered to various different parts of her face. She ran a slender hand across her hair, pulling away the water-matted locks, revealing her light brown eyes, petite nose, a face which could be described as beautiful, whilst not stereotypically ‘feminine’ at the same time. Her body creaked with fatigue as she forced herself into an upright position, before almost immediately, her eyes became wide, and she was forced straight onto her back again, coughing and spluttering as unwillingly inhaled water attempted to escape from her body.

A few moments later, after emptying her lungs somewhat and regaining enough energy to move, she forced her torso upright, bending her legs and wrapping one arm around her knees, in order to prevent herself from falling straight back down. Her beige trousers were now a sodden grey colour, her navy blue tank-top flattened even tighter against her skin, clearly visible from all angles through the now translucent, once white shirt that sat unbuttoned upon her slight frame. It took a few moments for her eyes to adjust fully to the surroundings, pupils expanding and contracting as they tried to acquire the correct focus for this dark, spooky-looking forest.

A few feet away from her, Locke was leaning against the trunk of a particularly sturdy tree. His body gave off all the signs of a forlorn traveller, stranded, scared, amidst a forest of unpredictability, but his eyes, darting this way and that on either end of his head, told a completely different story, as he was constantly on guard, watching from all angles for any surprise attacks upon the helpless duo. In his right hand, a cigar sat smouldering, barely alight due to the amount it had been waterlogged only a few moments ago, clouds of grey-black smoke billowing from the end, casually circling into the sky.

When his guarding gaze caught hold of Mujina’s disbelieving expression, he almost instinctively flicked his wrist to the ground, ready to stub out the burning cigar, until he realised that her look was not critical, in fact quite the opposite; it seemed that she was amazed that a Fishman could smoke. Giving her a sly grin, he placed the cigar between his lips, taking in a drag, before letting it go, the smoke being expelled through the gills on his neck, causing Mujina to chuckle besides herself; the image she was viewing was essentially the same as a cartoon character with plumes of angry steam being projected from their ears.

“Don’t tell your old man,” said Locke, after clearing any remaining smoke from his throat, “if he found out I was doing this near you, he’d go crazy.”
Mujina let out another quick laugh; “It’s not the first time I’ve been told that...” she muttered, before her eyes widened at the realisation of what she’d just said, her cheeks quickly filling with the rosy colour of embarrassment, leaving Locke simply smirking in a rapidly building silence.

After a few minutes, the Fishman felt it only polite to break the awkwardness.
“What do you see in that monkey, anyway?” he queried, taking another drag on his cigar, this time pushing down slightly so that it stuck fast on one of his sharp, pointed teeth, freeing his hands to push himself up from his seat, leaving him towering over the seated girl. Begrudgingly, he offered her his hand. Ignoring it, she instead pushed herself upright, her arm shaking somewhat as she did so, a combination of weariness, hunger and general shock. She glared defiantly at Locke.
“Seth’s sweet!” she said indignantly, giving the figure still towering above her a playful shove on the arm, “he’s caring, he looks after me... Granted it gets a little complicated when Daddy’s around,”—She took a moment to relish the nickname she rarely got to call her Father by—“but he’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

There was another moment of awkward silence, as Locke awaited a more substantial, realistic answer. After a few seconds, Mujina caved.
“And come on, who doesn’t love a tall, muscular man?” she said, with a sly grin and a certain, flirtatious glint in her eye. Locke let out a heavy sigh, blowing another wave of smoke free from his gills.
“Me, for one,” he muttered bitterly, glancing around the surrounding area in preparation for what he was about to do.

“Keep an eye out, Girlie,” he said, his eyelids slowly closing, covering his eyes completely, “I’m gonna take a really good look around this place.”
Mujina shuddered slightly as Locke’s eyes opened in a snap, but now they were different; the white of his eye was now a cloudy grey, all colour dulled down, losing its tone and sharpness, as if he had suddenly become blind.
“You know how creepy that is, right?” she said nervously, breaking her line of sight with the Fishman to inspect the shadows.
“Well, it’s your bastard boyfriend’s fault, he force fed me that Me Me no Mi. I may as well make some use of it...”
“Whatever,” she muttered, eyes scanning the shadows between the trees, “it’s still creepy.”

As Locke’s eyes opened, it was truly a spectacle to behold. Vision reaching for miles around, over the tops of the trees, past the grassy shoreline, and on to the horizon, if that’s what you could call it; the sea was almost identical in colour to the sky, as if the entire area was simply one enclosed sphere within the waters. The whole experience was as if he was stood in the sky, a good thirty metres or so above his actual location.
“What can you see?” came the dismembered voice of Mujina; the one thing that Locke was not quite accustomed to yet concerning this power was how ghostly it sounded when people spoke nearby.

“It looks... odd,” he started, his floating vision turning left and right as he observed more of their surroundings, “the sky’s not quite right. I can see the ship, though. She seems to be anchored to the north-west of us.” His vision then did a one-eighty flip, turning to look in upon the island itself; the forest curved like a donut around a central pillar of rock, a mountain that rose majestically from the ground. At the forest’s edge, the end of a glorious, golden path could be seen disappearing into a ridge of the mountains; peeking out from the edge of the rocks came the spire of a castle tower.

“Something important looking near the centre of the Island,” Locke said bluntly, “We’re heading that way.” Although his vision was projected into the sky, his body instinctively knew which way he meant, one arm raising as a webbed finger showed Mujina the direction that he meant.

Just after his arm was raised, a low growl floated ominously into his senses; a growl fairly dissimilar to the noise your average teenage girl makes. Mujina’s voice followed quickly, quavering with tones of suppressed fear.
“Uhh, Locke... we have a situation here.”

•••

Five Minutes Previously...

In the highest room of the tallest tower sat a figure; their form completely enshrouded by shadows. What little light the room held poured in from a nearby window, leaving a simple column of light; within its centre, there was a pedestal, a solid crystal ball affixed to its peak. Within the crystal, the entire island lay bare, clouded movements and spectral spikes of light transferring the view from one area to another in turn.

From the chair, the figure simply watched. Everything seemed entirely in order; their island was at peace. That was, of course, until the Crystal’s view shifted from one frame to the next, shining out over the corner of the mountain’s side, overlooking the forest and the sea beyond it. The figure sat forwards in their seat, one elbow resting upon their knee as they rested their chin in their hand. A wry grin swept across their lips. In the corner of the picture, a ship could be seen, anchored fast in its position. From within the forest, a plume of smoke spiralled up into the sky.

“How interesting,” she mused; their voice was obviously feminine, yet contained a certain underlying menace unbecoming of her sex, “it seems we have some uninvited guests on the island.” Laughing besides herself, she turned her attention to the open doorway at the end of the room.
“Ions! Get in here, now!”

Almost immediately, a new figure appeared in the doorway. In a gruff voice, he answered.
“You called, Ma’am?”
“See this?” the woman said plainly, pointing towards the area in question upon the Crystal. Her hand was cast into the light as she did so; a slender, dainty hand, longer than average nails garnished with blood-red colour, “go and investigate it, quickly. Take as many minions as you wish.”

Simply nodding in agreement, the figure disappeared as suddenly as he had arrived.
“This is going to be fun!” squeaked the concealed figure in her seat; a sparkle of ruby red dancing in the darkness around her feet, before dying down once again into the shadows.

•••

The colour rapidly returned to Locke’s eyes as his external vision was recalled, the ground seemingly rushing up to meet him as his eyesight returned to his head, leaving him momentarily with an undue sense of vertigo. Damnit, he muttered internally, I need to remember to close my eyes when that happens!

When his senses had fully returned, he focused his attention on the matter at hand. His arm was still elevated, pointing out the path that they must take. However, their problems started about 3 feet away from his fingertip; a pair of golden eyes mused indecisively as they observed the hand, following its path along the arm, then to the bulk of the towering Fishman. A set of great fangs were revealed through snarled lips; a soft, pink tongue wrapping itself lazily around one, attempting to satiate it’s hunger. A long, shaggy mane blew in the gently breeze that made the leaves above rustle awkwardly in their homes.

Plain as day, there was a Lion in front of them.
“...Fuck!” said Locke, following his usual, blunt trend of ideas.

The Lion took a step forwards, and Locke and Mujina simultaneously took one back. However, it would be to no avail; from every opening in the trees, shadowed figures crept into the light, exposing their golden manes or black and orange fur. The pair of pirates, in an attempt to stay clear of all the new intruders, were forced into the centre of the circle, where the first of the Lions and Tigers—clearly the largest, the alpha male—patrolled around them, nose upturned as it investigated its capture.

“Locke, get your—,“ started Mujina, before the Fishman cut her off mid sentence.
“You think I hadn’t thought of that, Dumbass?” he shouted, an obvious tone of bitterness and anger in his voice, “They’re still on the ship.”
“Well then what’re we going to do?!” Mujina cried in response. Locke’s answer was, once again, as simple as Seth’s version of “Les Miserable”.
“Duck!” he shouted, as the Lion dove forwards, jaws agape and claws ready for the kill. Mujina wasted no time in following the Fishman’s suggestion, crouching straight down onto the floor, arms upon the back of her head, eyes fixed solely on the floor.

Locke also dropped to the ground, but with slightly more style; knocking off his centre of balance, he fell backwards at the same rate as the Lion came towards him, causing the pair to be at an equal distance for a few moments of motion. Once the Lion was directly above him, Locke readied his hand, delivering a palm strike in one swift motion onto the beast’s belly. Grunting in pain, the creature was propelled further into the air, landing with an awkward grunt a few moments after Locke had completed his fall.

The other creatures around looked from one to another, unsure whether to move in for the kill, or escape the ridicule of potential failure. Upon hearing the Lion’s pain filled cry, Mujina lifted her head slightly, her eyes darting from one big cat to the next. It was only a few moments until the truth dawned on her.
“Locke,” she said, slowly but surely moving herself into a standing position, “Look at the others.”

In one swift movement, Locke leapt to his feet; the sharp actions causing the assembled cats to raise they’re hairs, growling and hissing in threat. Not letting this phase him, Locke took a few moments to have a good look at his enemies. Besides the main leader, there wasn’t something quite right about these beasts. Their expressions appeared wooden, all too similar from one to the next. From various parts of their body, a line of stitching could be seen, holding limbs to bodies or heads to necks. On a few, a zip line could be seen stretching across their stomach.

“They’re...” started Locke, allowing Mujina to finish his sentence.
“Taxidermy...” came the response. The pair gave each other a sideways glance of disbelief; such a thing was impossible, and yet here they stood, bearing down on them, intent to kill growing with each second that passed.
“Clever girl,” came a voice from behind them, causing them both to spin around on their heels, “perhaps too clever... Mistress will be most intrigued!”

As it spoke, the head Lion’s body began to shift, animalistic limbs morphing into more humanoid shapes, bone structure rearranging itself as the beast that was became the hybrid that is. Large, muscular arms ended in clawed fingers, the golden fur thinning out over its chest, except for the triangle of mane that linked around to the scruffy mass of hair covering its head and back. A flat, yet human face, with golden eyes, a small beady nose, whiskers protruding from fuzzy cheeks. A row of razor sharp teeth lined its jaws. A pair of plain, navy blue slacks had mysteriously appeared upon its legs.

“A Zoan user...” muttered Locke, unsure of whether this was an improvement or a disadvantage.
“Indeed, Fishman Locke,” commented the Lion Man, having picked up his name from his conversations with Mujina, “I consumed the Neko Neko no Mi: Model Lion. And now,” he started, rubbing the sore spot on his chest from the impact a few moments ago, and gesturing with one finger of the other hand, “Let’s Play!”

Locke placed one fist in his palm, pushing down as his knuckles gave off an impressive crack. Lowering his body slightly, he readied his body for a bout of melee combat, as the Lion did the same.
“Um... Locke?” came a slightly high pitched voice from beside him.
“Not now Mujina, I’m busy.”
“I know, but...” she was sounding more uneasy by the second, “how long has that Bear been there?”

Slowly, Locke’s head tilted, his line of sight rising above the Lion Man (who’s height rivalled even his own), and into the forest behind. From the shadows, a shaggy brown paw waved lazily back at him. Many of the faux-Lions and fake-Tigers nearby had already begun to back away from this newest addition from the animal kingdom to the scene. With sluggish movements, the bear moved into the light; its gargantuan form dwarfing the Lion Man’s by at least 3 feet. Bright, brown eyes passed across all of the assembled characters in the clearing, as its ears twitched slightly, the fur on its nose crumpling as it smelt the air nearby.

The next few happenings occurred within the space of mere moments. The Lion Man turned suddenly, his body shadowed underneath that of the Bear’s. At the same time, another figure appeared, climbing elegantly onto the Bear’s body, before seating herself on the crest of its head, long, slender legs wrapped around one ear for security. Her legs were covered by a pair of khaki trousers, various pockets lining their sides, bulging with accessories and tools. These ended with a belt around her hips, on which rested what appeared on first glance to be a giant tooth, but if one had more time to investigate, they would see the compass imbedded in its centre. Her hips curved around to her waist, which was bare, an orange shirt starting just above her belly button (leaving the panda-shaped belly piercing on clear display), seemingly loose, yet hugging to her ample breasts and inherently seductive figure at the same time. Her curly blonde hair rolled down past her piercing green eyes, ending at the base of her neck, where a brightly patterned scarf wrapped itself three times, before falling down her back, trailing behind her like a tail.

Locke was the first to see this newcomer for what she really was. He laughed despite himself.
“Looks like you’ve got competition for the Fan Service, Missy!” he said, his comment obviously directed towards Mujina.
“What’re you talking about?” she replied, her voice laden with confusion in the last free moment before madness struck.

In a voice sweetly unrepresentative of the reality of what she was saying, the newcomer was first to break the silence.
“Knock ‘em dead, Marty!” she said confidently, with a grin wide across her face, tentatively stroking the bear’s ear. Almost instantly, the bear let out a roar that shook the trees, swinging one giant paw and striking one nearby tiger away in an explosion of fluff and stitching. Many of the lions and tigers jumped forwards to avenge their fallen comrade, the others fleeing in terror into the forest.

Standing in the bear’s shadow, the Lion Man curled his fingers, obsidian black claws pointing forwards in a pentagonal pattern, and struck swiftly towards his target. The claws dug into the bear’s gut, causing the beast to let out another roar, this time of pain as opposed to anger. A tug of its ear, and both bear and girl disappeared like a phantom in the night, rapidly pursued by any of the Lions and Tigers that remained in the fight. For a moment, their leader lingered, eyes darting between their assailant and their target. With an unsatisfied snarl, he too leapt into the darkness.

Once again alone in the clearing, Mujina and Locke looked from each other to the shadowed trees, and back again.
“...The Fuck just happened?” said Locke, his attitude as constructive as it always was.

[Archer]

Chapter 5: Attaxidermy

“Caaaaaaaptaaaaaain...” came Vince’s whine, for the tenth time that hour; his complaint hit every five minutes like an overactive cuckoo clock, only instead of the bird, there was a gas bill on a spring. Checking his wrist once more, he addressed his (only slightly) new complaint to their captain.
“We’ve been walking on this road for 2 hours and 50 minutes already, I need a break!”

This time it was the straw that broke the camel’s back; Badger spun around on his heels, the fury of hell in his eyes.
“Vince, will you shut the fu—“ before he could finish his verbal onslaught on Vince, he was caught short by something completely unexpected. On Vince’s elevated arm, there lay nothing but bare flesh and a rolled up sleeve. There was definitely no sign of any sort of watch, or other portable clock-like contraption.
“Vince...” he muttered cautiously, “How have you been telling the time for the last 2 hours and 50 minutes?”

“What do you mean?” replied the artist, completely oblivious that what he was doing was not ‘normal’. Twisting his arm around slightly to show his palm to the captain, he explained in no uncertain terms: “With this!”
On the top of Vince’s wrist, there certainly was no watch or clock. Shaded perfectly out of skin and blue, black or purple ink was a portrait of Vince’s face. For a brief moment, it looked like it was winking at him.
“That’s... just a picture of your face...” Badger said, with a slight tone on his voice of the style you’d adapt when talking to all the inhabitants of a lunatic asylum in one sitting.

“Well, of course!” retorted Vince defensively. To reinforce his unique brand of sanity, he brandished his wrist towards Seth, who was busy having a serious, in depth conversation with a butterfly that was looking at him funnily from a nearby leaf.
“Seth, what time is it?”
Taking one glance at Vince’s wrist, Seth mumbled “About 4.15,” his attention immediately snapping back to more important matters.

Badger shook his head in disbelief, turning back to the path ahead of him, just in time to avoid tripping over an overly large crack in the rocks.
“Next time you two plan a prank, at least make it believable,” he said, his voice loud enough to be easily heard by both of his idiotic crewmates. Seth’s attention barely flinched as he tried to keep up with the crew while in an intense staring contest with the insect (which in truth, was simply trying to have its afternoon snack in peace). However, before Vince could protest to Badger’s comments, he spoke again:
“Take a look at that boys,” he said, raising a finger to point out the spears of light which pierced the forest canopy, “We’re nearing the edge!”
“Does that mean we can take a brea—“
“No, it doesn’t. Keep walking.”

•••

The image in the crystal shifted, leaving behind the image of the golden haired girl and her bear as they troublesomely tore through another of the tigers, and focussed instead on the edge of the forest, where the Yellow Road emerged, preparing its journey along the mountainside. From her seat, the figure sat forward as a black-and-white haired man, two young men and a gorilla entered once more into direct sunlight; the older man at the front covered his eyes with a forearm; the blonde one sat down immediately while his superior’s eyes were covered, putting his head in his hands, and the lanky one was poking the air with a spear, with which he was attempting to skewer a defenceless butterfly.

“Very interesting,” she said, tilting her head quizzically, trying to recall the faces she was beholding. One hand lazily reached over to a pile of papers, her fingers gripping them as she pulled them into her line of sight, and started to flick through them. On the fifth or so page, a smile of achievement played across her lips.
“Ohh, my pretty, you are really doing a fine job today, aren’t you?” she said, her eyes darting between the three leaves of paper in her hand and the crystal ball, who’s image now swirled with undue sparkle around the head figure of the group.

Placing down the three bounty posters, her hand tugged on two hanging ropes in turn; the first triggered the sound of moving iron, accompanied by a harsh harmony of screeching and leathery flapping; the second causing a bell to toll, the noise resounding around the halls of the castle.
“Time to get to work...” she smiled.

•••

“Vince, get off your arse!” shouted Badger, his palm striking firmly against the back of his blonde-haired skull. Somewhat strangely, it seems that Vince’s Devil Fruit only activated passively when it was a life-threatening situation; not, for example, when your captain is scolding you for being a lazy good-for-nothing. Rolling head first into the ground, Vince practically bounced back to his feet in recoil as opposed to loyalty to orders, a look on his face that lay somewhere between confusion, fear and nausea.

Boboette (who had just finished eating a random insect that happened to fly too close to her face) bounded forwards on all fours, basking in the sunlight as the trees dispersed completely, leaving the Yellow Road open to the sun; or whatever the light was. Somehow, although quite obviously submerged in the ocean, the island seemed to be in a state of perpetual sunlight; there had been no change in the state of the day since they had landed their ship back at the shoreline.

A few feet behind, Seth stood, blue faced through despair that his foe had been vanquished by a better being than he, the head of his spear trailing woefully along the ground, carving a dark brown groove through the haphazardly spread rocks of the path they had just walked. His body hung limp, as if only held in place by invisible strings on the hands of a grand puppeteer; his meaning in life was now void, his reason to be fading slowly from his mind.

Boboette’s head cocked at an angle, her lips pursed in a shape that would be defined by the sound “Oogh”. Raising one arm, she pointed one stubby finger at the four black dots that were slowly growing in the distance. Following the finger’s trail, Badger arrived at the same conclusion.
“Incoming, eyes on the skies, boys!” he said, tilting his head slightly as he addressed his crewmen.

Seth’s body bounced back onto form in an instant, his face aglow with vibrant, colourful imagination, his spear brandished towards the heavens. Maybe they were ravenous vultures coming to prey off their flesh, or dragon’s charged with protecting the Island’s secrets, or...
“Seth,” interrupted Badger, “Stop daydreaming and keep focused!”
...but regardless of the type of villainous creature, he would hold his weapon with honour, face any enemy that chose him, and bring them to their knees in a battle of strength and valour!

Badger looked away, as Seth’s eyes began to sparkle with the dreams of a thousand angry puppies. I don’t know what to do with him sometimes, he muttered internally, as he returned his vision to the increasingly large black specks on the skyline. Damnit, came his next internal curse of the day, Where’s that bastard Locke when you need him...

It seemed that the specs were moving at some incredible speed for their size; within a few mere minutes, they were large enough to be distinguishable as some variety of airborne creatures, great leathery black wings protruding from their bodies. A few moments more, and their hairy bodies could be noticed, matted black fur sprouting from their arms, legs, chests, and childlike expressions of glee beamed from their chubby grey faces, stubby teeth and pink tongues held within their mouths letting loose a combination of screeches and grunts.

Seth’s eyes widened, if such a thing is possible, even wider than when he was simply left to his imagination.
“They’re flying monkeys!!!” he said, jumping and dancing in small circles, his spear jabbing back and forth in the air in a routine that gave him a scarily pagan visage.

Flying monkeys they were indeed; and flying monkeys who wasted no time in their task. The four flew down in an unorganised formation, splitting out on their own to take on one of the four pirates each. Badger raised his arms to meet his assailant with reactions unbecoming of his size, his fingers locking with that of the monkey who was the obvious leader, being a good one-and-a-half times the size of the other three. Even with his strength, however, the captain found it an uphill struggle to remain in control of the situation, the monkey’s wings beating furiously, providing both a force of wind against his body, and an unusual power to struggle against.

He let off the pressure for a mere moment, but that was all that was needed; the creature swung it’s body around, keeping grip on the pirate’s hands, as his palm-like feet collided straight into Badger’s jaw. Knocked off balance, he was sent crashing to the ground, grubby grey toes pressing against his face, latching onto his jaw, scratching against his skin. In a burst of retaliation, Badger let his hand slacken; causing the monkey to lose its grip, just in time for the pirate to land a right hook to the side of the head. He quickly got back to his feet as the creature rolled and bounced awkwardly along the ground.

Nearby, his crewmates were having a mixed experience of this encounter. On the right, there was Boboette, who was simply sat on the ground, her arms wrapped maternally around one of the creatures, rocking slowly back and forth as it gargled with apparent pleasure at the sensation. On the left, however, was Seth, randomly stabbing backwards with his spear at the beast, which dodged deftly this way and that, each of its hands grabbing a clump of his hair, as he shouted “Flying Monkeys, Captain, they’re Flying Monkeys!”, now apparently aware that this was an undesirable situation to be in. And then, in the centre, there was...

“Shit, where’s Vince?!” said Badger, looking around himself just in time to bat away the monkey that was lunging towards him once again, a quick fist to the gut sending it reeling back into the skies. From nearby, a screech of joy accompanied by a squeal of despair, as Vince’s body could be seen, hanging upside-down, dragged into the sky by the fourth of the Flying Monkeys.

“Vince, you fool, ink it!” Badger shouted, cupping his hands to his mouth to carry the sound easier along the airwaves. From the skies, Vince’s reply echoed around them with an eerie resonance.
“I... I can’t!”

No way, thought Badger, his mind racing with possible solutions, before settling on the most obvious one; ...Seastone?! In the corner of his eye, he could see Seth’s arm flicking round, the head of his spear forcing the monkey behind him into submission as it crashed to the ground, before readying it to throw. Badger turned, extending his arm towards his first mate with fingers outstretched, palm facing the ground.

“Stand down, Seth; if you throw that thing here, you may never find it again.” Turning back to face the rapidly disappearing artist and monkey, he grinned to himself, reaching over his shoulders and unclipping the clasp on the two curved scabbards that lay on his back. “Leave this one to me,” he said, through smiling lips.

In one swift movement, he pulled his arms forwards, sliding the two weapons from their sheaths, crouching down slightly, and his arms bending slightly at the elbow as he prepared for his attack. His fingers wrapped gently around one end of each of the boomerangs, which extended his reach by about another arm’s length, the outside edge of the far side holding an imbedded blade. In another equally sharp movement, Badger’s body made a full three-hundred and sixty degree spin, as he released his grip at the crucial moment, sending the two boomerangs in a soaring arc through the sky towards their target.

With another screech (although this time, it was unsure as to whether it was Vince or the monkey making the sound), the artist’s body began to fall from the sky, limbs flailing madly at his supposed fate, accompanied by two other objects that span wildly in their descent. The other monkeys interpreted this as a sign to retreat, and took to the skies once again, as Badger’s boomerangs landed perfectly back in his hands once again, finding their place in their holsters just as a worrying ‘splat’ reached their ears from a few hundred yards away.

It took the others a few minutes to reach Vince, who was stood in awe at the pattern his impact had made against the ground; blues and purples curved and melded perfectly against the jagged yellows and oranges.
“This road... is perfect...” he muttered upon the other’s arrival; Badger, however, was more concerned with what else had fallen from the skies.

Picking up the dismembered arms of the Flying Monkey, he observed them from all angles. They were, indeed, arms that had once belonged to some variety of monkey, or at least a monkey-like creature; however, when he titled one to observe the fingers, a few grains of sand slid out of the severed joint, pattering weakly against the ground. Turning his attention instead to this side, he probed a pair of fingers inside, clawing out a combination of padding, foam and sand.

“...taxidermy?” he muttered passively, reaching further inside, pulling out more stuffing as he searched for his goal; it wasn’t long before he found it, his fingers resting on something hard, something out of place. His muscles seemed to relax involuntarily as he pulled it free of its housing, revealing the small lump of black rock to the world.

“I knew it,” he said, tossing the lump to the side of the road, “whatever bastard runs this joint has got access to Seastone...”
He glanced ahead of himself, following the Yellow Road’s path, which wound around a nearby turn before beginning an ascent of the mountain. From this angle, a castle tower could be clearly seen peeking out from behind one of the mountain’s ridges.

“It looks like it’ll be an uphill struggle from here on in,” he said, placing one foot in front of the other once again, “in every sense of the word.”

[Archer]

Chapter 6: Thy Enemy Revealed

The shadows in the room shifted and turned, as if keeping tabs on the five figures present. At one end of the room, a woman sat in her chair, as always, covered to the outside world by a veil of darkness, hands running across the furry back of a small animal on her lap. Opposite her in the room stood three men, two of whom are yet to feature in our little adventure; that is, of course, until now.

On the left, set slightly forward of the other two, a familiar, yet unfamiliar figure knelt, his head bowed towards his mistress. His torso was completely bare, rippling muscles only hidden by a sea of golden hairs; below the point where the hairs ended, a purple bruise swelled painfully. His face was stern, a slightly larger than average nose and smaller ears accompanied only by scars. His hair was buzz-cut, and platinum blonde. One hand lay upon the leg of his camouflage-patterned trousers, the other flat against the stone floor.

“Louis,” the woman spoke, “Why is it that you failed me, once again?”
At the word ‘failed’, the man’s face physically contorted, a mixture of despair and disappointment at himself fuelling his features. Before he could begin his case, a voice from his right cut him short.

“This better be good, Ions,” this particular voice was quite becoming of its owner; a harsh, gravelly undertone layered beneath the strong, fearsome accent. To the right of the kneeling man stood another of a whole other calibre, his body stiff and unmoving; although it was smaller and slimmer than that of the first man’s, every square inch of his body was at its peak, his pale skin darkened by an underlying shade of metallic silver. On each of his joints, a dark line ran in a circle around the limb in question, small silver domes running parallel like bolts screwed down to a metal plane. The only thing to cover his shame was a pair of tightly fitted navy-blue shorts, and a fingerless leather glove on each hand.

“I don’t need your input, thank you,” came the woman’s voice once more, instantly silencing the second man; his head twisting back to return focus to the leader of the assembled group. “I don’t wish to be made to ask again, Louis. What went wrong?”

Raising his head slightly, Ions mouth opened slightly, the words momentarily refusing to leave before his remaining willpower forced them loose.
“It wasn’t told to do more than investigate, and when that blonde bitch arrived and started causing chaos, I thought it a better use of time and resources to apprehend the stranger than to continue with the mission.” he started, his eyes pleading for some sort of agreement from any of the assembled party. There was a slight pause, before their leader spoke again from the shadows.

“Bullshit!” her voice was filled with anger; even the hardy figure flinched with a dash of fear at her tone. “Fail again, and I’m selling you to a fucking Zoo. Got it?”

Too ashamed and afraid to even utter a response, Ions simply nodded, shuffling back into line with the other two figures. The second in the line smiled discreetly; the third simply stood. He seemed less of a man than either of the others, any distinguishing features covered by a simple hemp sack, holes torn out where the eyes would be, a wonkily stitched line for a mouth. A simple chequered shirt and beige trousers hung loosely on his figure, a simple chord of string for a belt. From the corners of the trouser legs, sleeves, and any other random holes in his attire, the occasional stick of straw protruded, bent and battered into a variety of shapes and sizes.

“Now, we’ve got two very important things to get through today!” the woman said, any negative feelings now eradicated from her voice, as she leaned forward slightly, the Crystal that lay between the four standing figures swirling ominously as it settled on its new target; the crisp light shone out from an aquatic scene, pieces of random debris floating this way and that.

“Firstly,” she said, turning her head slightly to look past the figure of the straw man, into the darkest corner of the room, “I’ve some news for you, missy.”
A previously shrouded figure moved ever so slightly, so that her huddled body could be seen in the darkness. Her green eyes peered out over a beaked nose, and from her fingers, slim tendrils of energy seemed to tie themselves like puppeteer’s strings to different parts of the Scarecrow’s body.

The figure in the chair pointed as a figure floated past the other debris in the image. Her body was twisted, wooden shrapnel piercing her skin, and a trail of blood following her journey beneath the waves.
“It appears that your sister has died,” said the woman frankly, leaving the huddled figure in the corner staring blankly at the crystal in a state of disbelief and horror, “Shame, really. Oh well, next item!”

The crystal changed once again, this time splitting the image down the centre; one side showed a hammerhead shark Fishman manoeuvring his way through the forest, a young girl following closely behind him; the other displaying the four pirates on the Yellow Road, sat around a circle on a temporary rest (brought on, most likely, by incessant whining on a certain artist’s part.)

“It seems that some fish have taken the bait,” the woman smiled, giving the three figures opposite her a few moments to take in what they were seeing. After this slight pause, she reached to her right, picking up three pieces of paper and throwing them casually onto the floor, the light that poured in through the windows enabling their contents to be seen easily.

“’Last Man Standing’ Horatio Badger, worth B100,000,000. ‘Scorpion’ Arachna D Seth, worth B69,000,000. “Artiste” Vince Van Monasso, worth B50,000,000,” her finger pointed at each poster in turn, indicating clearly the features of the three most wanted pirates in the group, “half of their crew are bounty heads! And not exactly small fry, either.”

The centre figure of the three men affixed his eyes on the crystal, darting his attention from one pirate to the next in turn. After a few circuits around the crew, his pupils fixed solidly on one particular man, his cheeks padded out as an enormous grin crossed his face, eyes clenched shut, one hand absentmindedly scratching the scar on his arm as the captain let his first mate relish in a tale of his success (in this particular instance, it involved Seth’s battle with Commodore Aran of the 5th Marine Brigade.)

“I’ll take the chirpy one,” he said, his voice filled with menace, “he seems innately optimistic. I would gain great satisfaction in beating that particular virtue from his system.”
“That suits me fine,” added Ions rapidly, raising a finger to point out the Fishman, “as long as I go nowhere near him! That one’s vicious, that Locke!”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” quipped the central man, “you can turn into a Lion! Tear the fish into fillets!”
“N...not all of us have your bloodlust, Woody,” he replied, backing away slightly in slight disbelief that his retort was actually spoken aloud, before readjusting the aim of his digit to indicate instead the blonde haired man, who seemed to be on the verge of an emotional breakdown due to the fact (unbeknownst to their observers) that Badger had just told him the truth of what he thought Vince’s idea of an after-battle celebration.
“Let me t...take him, Mistress,” he said, “he seems much less of a threat!”

“Do whatever you will,” she muttered, momentarily despairing at her incompetent underling, while tentatively scratching the belly of the animal on her lap, which now lay upside down, pawing the air gently with pleasurable twitches, “Ions, Cutter, you can take out the lower of the two bounties. That old biddy in the corner and her Scarecrow will take the freebies...”

Righting itself and bounding merrily off her lap, the small Scottie Terrier bounced across the room, yipping quietly at nothing in particular. Standing up from her seat, the woman moved into the light, exposing her red-and-white chequered dress, straw-blonde pigtails, and glistening ruby slippers.

“It seems that the Badger is mine, then,” said Dorothy, through smiling lips.

[Archer]

Chapter 7: The Castle Gates

In contrast with the still, serene forest that they had been forced into in the first instance, the area that Locke and Mujina now found themselves in was comparable to the aftermath of an apocalypse. Although some trees remained unscathed, many were bent double; crippled by sheer force, leaving fractured branches and fraying bark scattered around the area, wounded defenders in an unknown war. Mounds of dislodged earth stood tall next to impromptu trenches, dug in seconds and left for naught. Random darts of light pierced through overhead, spearing the air and illuminating random areas of devastation.

Knelt down, Locke’s fingers traced the edge of one particular indentation in the earth. The footprint was almost the size of a dustbin lid, with claw marks dotted along its furthest edge that must’ve been a good inch in diameter. How can something this big vanish that quickly, he thought, lifting his dirt-laden hand out from the hole, and more to the point, why does it allow that blonde to ride it like her slave...
Before he could contemplate the implications that would’ve ensued had any human male had this thought, Mujina’s voice beckoned him from across the man-(or more accurately, bear)-made clearing.

“Locke, I found a live one!” she shouted, her figure obscured to Locke’s view initially by a fallen log. Moving quickly, he vaulted the slain tree with one hand, landing heavily next to the hunched figure of Mujina, who was busy examining the body in front of her. The tiger was mostly intact, mouth twitching into a snarl as the Fishman approached. However, when one looked further down its body, the reason for its defeat was clear; its hind legs, along with a good few inches of the rear end of its body, were missing completely, fraying threads and clouds of dispersing stuffing sprouting into open air.

After observing the creature for a good minute, Locke could only think of one coherent thing to say:
“What the hell is wrong with this place?!” he muttered.
“Not a clue,” said Mujina frankly, as she ran a hand over the edges where the tiger’s fabric skin had been torn, “but this thing’s authentic. You can see clear as day there are no organs in here; you don’t need to be a doctor to figure out that this shouldn’t be alive.” Locke walked slowly around the girl, so that he had a clear view into the gaping wound that plagued this piece of household decoration. He stooped slightly, as if deep in thought, his pupils pointing directly at the fake fallen beast. Reaching out with one hand, he stroked the fur on its back, the glorious sheen it would have once had long gone under the influence of cleaning and preservative chemicals.

“So, what happens if I do this?” he said, grinning disturbingly as he took a lump of foamy stuffing in his hand, and yanked it from the hole in the creature’s torso. Giving a yelp of pain that wasn’t there, the tiger’s neck jolted backwards, convulsing in rapid spasms until the light slowly faded from its eyes.
“Fuck,” said Locke uncaringly, “I killed it.”
“Locke!” Mujina cried, swivelling on her heels and standing at her full height, so that she almost rivalled the Fishman’s crouched figure, “We needed to get information out of that!”
“We did get information out of it,” Locke protested, holding the lump of stuffing aloft, “we found out that if I do that, it dies.” It took a moment for the idea to make sense in his head, but when it did, he followed up with: “And what does it matter anyway; we couldn’t get any information out of something that can’t speak.”
“Did you try talking to it?” she said, with the tone only adoptable by women who know when they are right, irrespective of the facts at hand.
“Well, no, but...”
“Exactly!”

Locke let out a heavy sigh; muttering something along the lines of ‘women...’ under his breath as he stood up straight again, and looked around himself. It took him a few seconds to gain his bearings, and block out the sound of Mujina as she tried to bring his attention to the fact that she’d heard and registered his complaint, and took to it unfavourably (only in nastier terms than that). Given a few moments, he nodded towards a gap between the trees.
“We need to head that way.” He said. Clenching her fists in frustration, Mujina could only muster an affirmative nod before she allowed herself to start venting the frustration; kicking the discarded carcass of the tiger far into the darkness, she started following Locke’s trail through the woods.

After a few hundred feet, Locke caught a glimpse of something in his eye; he turned to Mujina, pointing across to the forest floor a few metres away.
“There’s another one.” He said, stopping briefly. Excitedly, Mujina turned to see, eyes darting back and forth, expecting to see another of the struggling taxidermical henchmen.
“But... there’s nothing there...” she said finally, confused. She watched as Locke took a few giant strides forward, and crouched low for the third time this chapter.
“Oh yes there is,” he breathed, gesturing her over to the hole in the ground he was kneeling besides, “come look see.”

As she approached, the footprint seemed to leap at her like a wild animal; its size increased with every step she took towards it, bringing what she had assumed to be a simple divot in the landscape into a worrying realisation of what could lie deeper within this island.
“For some reason,” Locke said, addressing Mujina but in a tone that made it seem as if he were talking to himself, “it’s headin’ the same way we are. Hopefully, that’s a good thing...”
“Did you see the size of it, though?” she said, forcing down the lump that was slowly forming in her throat, “It seemed so... big...”

Standing up again, Locke turned to look at her, before returning his focus to the path ahead of them.
“Way to articulate there, missy.” He chuckled, setting off again. As they progressed slowly, but surely, through the forest, as the metres passed seamlessly beneath their feet one after another, they seemed to get closer and closer to the light building at the end of the proverbial tunnel.

•••

Covering his face with one arm to combat the blinding light above them, Vince whimpered as his eyes began to swell with tears, his legs burning with unimaginable pain from walking for the aeons since their journey began, his pale skin glistening (although quite beautifully, if one looked at it from the correct perspective) from innumerable beads of sweat. Weakly, his voice quavered as he stared; “Captain,...”

“Vince,” Badger interrupted, “If we stop again, I’m going to be forced to tell another story in which Seth gets some variety of praise, and you know what’ll happen then.”
Vince turned to look at the first mate, who was already grinning inanely, most likely an aftershock of the previous story time. He decided it might be better just to stay quiet this time. He looked around himself, taking in his environment; the Yellow Road still stretched out beneath them, although instead of tall trees and woodland shrubs, it’s accompanying act was now a grey, daunting rocky cliff, twisting roots of dying trees puncturing the landscape through sheer will to live; the only real colour around them besides the road itself was an occasional red flower sprouting up between the rocks; if he was a paranoid sort of person, he would have said that they were getting more frequent.

“I think those red flowers are getting more frequent...” he muttered, weakly. No one seemed to listen. At the head of the group, Badger kept marching on at a constant pace, eyes fixed upon the increasingly vast castle turret that lay beyond the nearest curve in the road. Boboette lagged behind, seemingly occupying herself by grabbing randomly passing rocks and throwing them playfully at whatever took her fancy. Vince rubbed his head, trying to ease some of the pain out of the rock-marks in the back of his skull, before realising the horrific truth that he had but one person with whom to hold a conversation.

“So, Seth...” he started, unsure immediately of how to finish; it was rare that he thought this far into a human interaction, but some levels of artistic oppression force people into unwanted situations. Deciding it was the best topic he could muster, he started again.
“So, how’s your relationship going with the Captain’s dau—mfphh mmhm!”
Any intentions Vince had of completing his sentence were smothered by Seth’s hand clasping tightly across his mouth (and, accidentally, his nose. This was, at present, not a problem, however.)
“Shhhh!!!” he pleaded, looking uneasily between the smothered artist and his captain’s back, “It’s not supposed to have gotten out...”
Badger gave a haughty laugh, causing Seth’s face to slacken into a confused “huh?” expression.
“Please, Seth,” said Badger, “You came and told me in person. If I hadn’t been forced to stop you, you would’ve given me details...” He shuddered at the prospect of Seth, his daughter and the things that his mind’s eye censored for his sanity, muttering something that an uncanny listener would interpret as ‘It’s not like I can’t hear you anyway...’

Seth let out a sigh of relief, safe in the knowledge that the captain didn’t disapprove, at least openly so, of his relationship with Mujina. However, his relief did not automatically tell his brain to let up his grip on Vince’s face; and for some reason, he was surprised when he turned to see his crewmate rapidly turning a deep shade of purple.
“Hey, Cap’n, look at this,” he said excitedly, practically jumping on the spot, yet without letting go, “Vince is developing his powers! He can turn into solid ink!”
“Let go of his face, Seth.” Badger said, not even bothering to turn around. Looking confused for a second, Seth looked from his captain to his hand, before slowly moving his palm away from the artist’s face. Instantly, Vince dropped to his knees, gasping loudly as he tried to cram as much oxygen into his frail little body as he could with one breath. Colour (of the correct kind) slowly returned to his body, as Seth just stood there, stroking his chin as if in deep concentration.

“It seems,” he said, after a few moments internal discussion, “that Vince’s newfound ability requires a lot of energy...”
“Seth, you dolt, keep moving!” shouted Badger, who was now a good few hundred feet ahead of the rest of the group. Scurrying and staggering, respectively, to keep up with him, Seth and Vince hurried down the path, leaving Boboette wandering idly behind them, wrist flicking occasionally, resulting in a momentary shriek of pain as a pebble collided with Vince in some way.

After another slight bend in the road, the artist began to become sure that his paranoia wasn’t ungrounded; the small red flowers were popping up all over the place, their black hearts staring him down ominously.
“Captain, I really think there’s something weird about these flowers...” Vince said, allowing himself a momentary bout of confidence. Badger glanced around, having barely noticed his surroundings, keeping only his target in mind.
“That is odd,” he muttered, taking the flowers into account for the first time since beginning the ascent up the mountain, “Poppies, by the looks of them. What do you reckon, Seth?”

There was a pause, filled by a lengthy snore. Badger paused for a moment, twisting his torso around so that he could see the rest of his crewmen. While Vince shuffled uneasily from foot to foot, and Boboette played with another shard of rock, Seth was, although still standing, hunched over forwards, his arms hanging lazily at his sides, and a comically sized balloon of spittle forming from the side of his lips. Sniffing the air cautiously, Badger looked around himself once again.

•••

Dorothy paced uneasily in the tower of her castle; although the crystal still displayed the Badger Pirates on their journey towards her domain, she had no need for it now; for the last hour or so, they were clearly visible from the window of her tower room. Holding a brass telescope to her eye, she watched as the Scorpion lolled forwards on the spot, deep in an instantaneous sleep. Her brow ruffled, however, as the other pirates seemed without worry; although the Badger seemed suspicious of something. Irritated, she lowered her eyepiece, and turned to the door.

“Hey, random minion!” she shouted, waiting for a moment for the arrival of someone who never came. Even more frustrated, she threw the telescope to the ground, stomping angrily towards the doorway, placing a hand against the stone wall as she leant around the entrance to the room, “Why the hell isn’t the Poppy Trap working? Is the gas working on low strength or something?”

There was silence for a moment, before a voice came from the floor below, in a tone that indicated he really didn’t want to be conveying this news.
“A-actually, Mistress... the Lever’s stuck... that one just fell asleep on his own.”
“Oh, Fuck this!” Dorothy said, storming out of the room and down a flight of spiral stairs, pulling something from the wall in a blur as she hurried her out of her tower block.

•••

“Seth,” Badger said, swinging his hand through the air in a swift motion, “Wake UP!” The bubble of spittle burst as Badger’s palm collided with his first mate’s cheek, sending Seth’s head rolling in a full circle as much as his neck would allow before returning to its original position, the halfwit seemingly unaware that anything had happened.
“Why’ve we stopped, Cap’n?” he said curiously, glancing around himself for any unknown dangers.
“Forget it,” he muttered, turning again and advancing along the path. It was barely a minute until the group had turned the final visible corner of the Yellow Road; and what they saw caught them off guard.

Although they had been expecting a castle, what they beheld seemed so much more than that, and somehow so much less also. Before them lay a massive archway, an iron-bar gate spanning its length of what must be at least a hundred metres. A pair of twin towers shot from the ground, launching high into the sky, becoming daunting spires that challenged the heavens. And although there was an obvious courtyard on the other side of the gates, any and all visible doors seemed to lead to nowhere in particular; they were simply etched into the rock’s face, the courtyard itself carved out of the mountain, which seemed to climb endlessly above them.

Badger chuckled. “Here, I thought that arriving at this castle would start to give us some answers. Turns out we’ve been on it all along...” The other three looked at the gates in awe, taking in the scene as best they could.
“If only Mujina and Locke were here to see this...” muttered Seth, his voice dropping slightly as his active thought remembered what had happened.
“Well, who knows,” said Badger cheerily, “maybe we’ll be seeing them sooner rather than later.”

At that moment, a grunt of exertion accompanied a webbed hand grasping the dirt at the top of a nearby rock face. A few moments later, and a flat head followed it over the edge, teeth gritted as it pulled it’s—and, as it soon became apparent, it’s companions—body over the ledge, slumping down upon the ground once he was far enough to do so without fear of falling.
“If I ever have to do that again,” Locke grumbled, addressing Mujina, who was holding tightly onto his shoulders, her legs wrapped around his torso for security, “then I’m gonna fucking charge you, Missy.”

“Mujina!” Seth cried, running over to the cliff face and extending his arm to help the pair up. Looking up, almost in disbelief, Mujina’s eyes met with Seth’s, and a smile widened across her lips, as she held his hand, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet, before she flung her arms tightly around his chest, her face flat against his body, a few tears rolling down from her eyes.
“Oh Seth, I was so scared...” she mumbled, taking comfort as he hugged her back, saying nothing, simply relieved that they were reunited once again.

Locke pulled himself over the last few feet of the cliff, sweeping his hands over his body to get rid of any excess dust.
“Oh, right, play it up. Stuck alone with the big scary Fishman...” he muttered, bypassing the couple as they stood, oblivious to the world. He walked over to the other three members of the ramshackle band of pirates, stopping in front of Badger, and lowering his head slightly.

“Captain.” He said plainly, waiting patiently for whatever he chose to say. After a few moments, Badger spoke:
“You’re a fool, Locke,” he started, choosing his words carefully so as to not overly upset one of his only sensible companions, “but thank you for caring for my daughter.” He gave the Fishman a smile, which he duly accepted with a toothy grin of his own.
“No problem, Captain.” He said.

As Seth and Mujina’s hug gradually came to an end, the crew stood in a circle in front of the castle gates.
“Now, we’ve solved one problem,” started the Captain, obviously displaying his gratitude that his lost crew had returned, yet also making it clear that there were still tasks to be handled, “so let’s move on to the next. I’ve got a hunch tha—“

His speech was cut short by a strange sensation in his nose; he had barely noticed it at first, but the dust that had been dislodged when Locke overcame the mountain hadn’t all settled at once; a few clouds still lingered in the air. And apparently, some had managed to penetrate his nostrils. After a few sudden intakes of breath, Badger’s body rocked forwards in one sudden motion, a combination of phlegm and mucus exploding from his lips as the captain let loose a colossal sneeze. Almost instantly afterwards, a splashing joined the commotion of sound as something passed without resistance through Vince’s leg on the opposite side of the circle, followed by a cracking as chunks of rock were forcefully dislodged from the mountain.

Badger stood up straight, wiping the unwanted bodily fluid from his features, watching his crew’s faces of confusion as they tried to decipher what had happened. Looking momentarily at the chipped rocks, and splashes of blue ink behind Vince, Badger spun on his heels to face the castle that lay on the walls of the mountain. An eerie laugh could be heard from the top of the gates, soon to be followed by a voice, projected loudly through the area so that all could hear.

“Well, I didn’t really think that would work, but even so, that was simply spectacular!” said Dorothy, the wind tugging at her hair and her chequered dress, and coaxing away the smoke that poured from the barrel of the rifle in her hands.

[Archer]

Chapter 8: Commencing Conflict

For a few moments there was a hanging silence across the open mountainside, tugging at all its inhabitants, discomforting them in order to support itself. While their assailant stood smugly in waiting, the Badger Pirates stood somewhat uneasily; one whimpering slightly at the prospect of having just been accidentally shot, two held together in a tight embrace, eyes unwaveringly fixed upon the castle’s battlements, and two more stood tall, awaiting their captain’s command. Somewhat uncharacteristically, the Captain himself was still busy dislodging the last dregs of his dust-influenced onslaught, nose twitching slightly as he sniffed and snorted towards a comfortable compromise.

After the uneasy pause, once Badger’s nasal cavities had rectified themselves, he took a careful step forward towards the Castle’s gate. He took a few moments so as to pick the correct words for what could be a fatally fragile situation.
“And why in Davy Jones’ name are you shooting at me?” was the best he could manage; the words caused another raucous laugh to invade the air, as the woman lent forwards in hilarity, slapping one free hand against a stone slab of the walkway’s barrier.
“Ooh, I love[/i] it when they’re feisty!” she said, fighting to hold back the fit of giggles that threatened to take over her sense of ‘time and place’. Badger sighed; People who laugh this much are never good people... he thought, bitterly. He turned for a second to face his crew, who all looked instantly at his stern face.

“Act carefully now,” he said, his eyes browsing across all of his crew’s features, but lingering on Seth’s for a fair few moments longer, “We don’t know what the skinny is here. Anything could happen.” A unified nod of agreement was the only acknowledgement he needed, along with Seth moving gently away from his other half, ready to act in any way necessary. However prepared they may have thought they were, however, a clattering sound from across the open rocky straight caught them all off-guard, all diverting their attention back to the gates.

“Bu... Where’d she go?!” said Vince in disbelief; the clinking sound of metal on stone belonged to the rifle falling against the battlements; however, its owner was no-where to be seen.
“That’s impossible,” snorted Locke, pupils darting this way and that in search of the hiding place she had obviously taken to.
“Alas, it’s quite possible indeed, my dear Fishy,” her high pitched voice floated with menace between the pirates, as a nearby door creaked open; it was so subtly placed on the side of the left hand gate tower, that none of them had seen it on the first look. She walked confidently into the open plain before the pirates, followed by two unlikely looking figures.

The first looked, on first glance, as if he’d accidentally fallen into a vat of polish; his skin was darkened with a silver tone, but his body seemed to shine and sparkle in a way somewhat unbecoming of your average human. As he walked out onto the rocky outcrop, his body seemed to give off a ‘clink’ with every movement he made. His dark blue shorts twisted and tugged in order to keep their form against his thighs, and over any hair he might have had, he wore an unusual looking piece of headgear; to an uninformed observer, it looked like an upside-down funnel.

The second was hunched over forwards; it was impossible to tell if this was a physical impediment or due to some manner of disfigurement, because her entire body was cloaked in reams of pure black cloth. What little of her skin could be seen appeared impossibly old, cracks and wrinkles pervading any area they could, her hooked nose holding a single, throbbing wart. The pigment of her skin appeared to be tainted, giving her body a sickly green look; although this could also have been an illusion caused by the shadow that fell from the brim of the pointed hat that held her silvery hair in place. In the daylight it was difficult to see, but a keen viewer might see something similar to a string beginning a journey from each of her fingers; although in the current light, the destination was impossible to discern.

Badger looked quickly around the area, checking for any sort of ambush or trap. To their right, a scarecrow hung limply on a wooden frame, stalks of straw protruding from its rag-tag clothes like yellow needles. Besides that, there was nothing out of the ordinary. The captain began walking slowly towards the three figures.
“So, who are you, exactly?” he said simply. The lead woman almost took the question offensively, as if it was a crime that the pirate did not know her name. However, this look lasted merely a second, replaced swiftly by a cheeky grin.
“Who, us? Well, we’re just your run-in-the-mill Bounty Hunters. You can call me Dorothy,” she said, tugging on the corners of her plaid dress and bowing her head slightly in a mock courtesy.

Ah, fuck... thought Badger, his mind’s eye glancing back to Seth and Vince; I knew those bloody posters would cause us trouble. Well, maybe we’ll get lucky...
“Oh, really?” he said, trying to feign ignorance, “and what exactly do you want with us?” This comment simply triggered another bout of laughter from the woman, Badger’s eyes rolling at the fact that he’d actually attempted that ploy. Oh well, it had a slight chance of success, I suppose, he added, as an afterthought. Through the first few seconds of the girl’s exuberant laugh, he could hear the footsteps as his crew advanced behind him. Something seemed slightly off, however...

“Oh please, Horatio,” she said, having the nerve to use his first name as an obvious sign that she knew of his price, “You know exactly what I want with you; about B219,000,000 to be exact!” She started into laughter once again, at a joke that seemed to only apply to her. After a few moments, the hilarity subsided, and she spoke again.
“...and if I was feeling confident, I’d say that about B50,000,000 of that sum is on its way to my bank as we speak!”

Realisation dawned on Badger about what had seemed out of place a moment before; spinning on the spot, he partook in a quick observation of his crew, but the problem was evident from the start. He gritted his teeth.
“Where the hell is Vince?!” he shouted, causing the other four crewmates to look around, startled. He had been at the back of the group; none of them had seen him leave, nor be taken, anywhere. Turning once again, Badger took a few meaningful steps towards Dorothy and her associated cohorts.

“What have you done with my navigator, bitch?!” he growled.
“Now now, no need for obscenities,” she said, waving a finger condescendingly at the man who stood at least a head taller than her, “and for your information, I didn’t do anything with him. While you were all preoccupied with watching me, he ran off over that way,” she waved a hand uncaringly towards the rocky wall that leaned in towards the opposite gate tower, “What I’m going to do with him, however, is another question entirely.”
“Bullshit!” shouted Badger angrily, but under his hyped-up rage, he knew full well that out of anything happening right now, Vince running away from a potentially violent situation was a fairly high chance on the cards. He’s gonna pay for this one, he vowed silently, his eyes fixed on Dorothy’s.

During the latest verbal conflict, the Badger crew had begun to move in preparation for what may yet come. Seth and Locke had taken up positions besides their captain, paralleling the places held by Dorothy’s quiet cohorts. Standing slightly behind them, Boboette’s clenched knuckles dug into the ground. And at the back of the group, Mujina stood alone, biting her nails in silent anticipation. She was worried; although the situation had barely developed, it seemed that they were out of their depth. Vince had vanished, her father was snapping and biting at every verbal lure their hunters set, and at this stage the rest of them seemed powerless to interfere.

Before her thoughts could progress any further, however, a slight rustling sound from behind her heralded the arrival of a hand across her face, and an arm held tight against her stomach. She tried to cry out, her legs flailing wildly for freedom as she was lifted off the ground, but any effort to make noise she tried simply resulted in a muffled whimper, as if she had been smothered by a pillow, and a scratching sensation against her skin. At this moment, the old crone stood behind Dorothy seemed to come alive with newfound energy, her fingers twitching and twisting wildly as her head rocked back in a sharp edged cackle, that even caught Dorothy herself off-guard.

“Interesting,” the girl muttered, swapping her attention from the seemingly psychotic woman back across to the band of pirates; at which point, a grin of unexpected success crossed her lips.
“Now, I don’t usually let you act on your own instincts, you old witch, but this I think I can handle!” she said, as the Scarecrow darted forwards from the back of the group with undue speed, passing between Seth and Badger almost before they realised what was happening. A few seconds later, it was retreating into the open doorway behind the Bounty Hunters, the still cackling woman following swiftly behind.

“Mujina!” came Badger and Seth’s joint cry, both pirates leaping into action without a moment’s hesitation, sprinting at a level pace towards the tower. However, Badger had barely made half of the distance before a blurred figure appeared at his side; colours and features filling in as his senses caught up; it became apparent that it was Dorothy herself, having moved at seemingly impossible speeds, closing the distance between them in an instant.

“Bad Pirate!” she shouted, the sound of muted giggles still penetrating her speech, before she brought her leg around through the air in one swift movement, her foot colliding sharply with Badger’s cheek. Knocked off balance, he was sent flying across the newly christened battlefield; a moment later, something solid gave under his impact, but the resistance it had posed brought his speed down to a leisurely fall, leaving him to collide with the ground in a cloud of up thrown dust. As he regained his composure, he could see the hole he had created in the iron gates, as he placed his palm against his face, pushing with enough force to crack his jaw back into place.

Seth, meanwhile, had made it to the doorway; however, before he could breach the castle’s limits, a silver hand shot towards him, finger’s clasping around his neck with an iron grip, lifting him a good foot from the ground. Before he could put up any resistance, his body was tossed into the air, wind blowing his hair wildly around his face as he rose and fell, only to feel the impact of the man’s shin against his gut, sending him crashing down besides his captain.

“Damnit lady, that’s some kick you’ve got there,” he said as the pair of bounty hunters advanced through the damaged gates, still nursing his cheek, tasting the iron sting of blood creeping between his teeth, “with legs like that, it gives a guy something to wonder about, eh?”
Following up his crass innuendo with a cheeky wink and sly grin, he forced himself to his feet, leaving Seth in a mixed daze of pain and trying to figure out what it was exactly his Captain was wondering about. The laugh that followed his comment this time was more subdued; a derogatory stab at women in his humour helped to dull the woman’s good nature.

“Now now, Badger,” she said, sliding something out of the pocket in the front of her dress, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.” What she had withdrawn was a pair of flaking brown Bounty posters; deliberately taking them out so that the pictures faced towards the pirates, Badger could see clearly that they were the head’s of himself and his first mate.
“Now, as you can see,” she said, holding both posters in one hand whilst using the other to indicate Seth’s features portrayed on the page, “this is how a bounty poster should look. Picture, number, dead-or-alive, that sort of thing. It’s fairly simple. However, yours,” she moved her finger across to Badger’s poster, “comes with an extra piece of information. Would you care to tell me what this says, here...?” Her finger slid down the page to a small piece of writing underneath the printed figure; a simple two words.

Badger grinned to himself, having missed this feature of his bounty poster when observing them on his own.
“’Warning: Unpredictable’” he said, mimicking the words printed on the bottom of his poster.
“Now, exactly,” Dorothy said, a smile of her own playing on her lips, “but that could be said about any buffoon worthy of a cost. So what does that mean?”
As he lowered himself into a battle-ready position, Badger’s heart leapt at the knowledge that he did still have some element of surprise held above his opponent; and it jumped another foot still as he saw Locke and Boboette vanishing into the castle tower through the now-unguarded door.
“Well, why don’t I just show you, eh?” he said, his smile widening, “It’d be my pleasure.”

•••

A small pool of purple liquid slid easily under the doorway, travelling under its own power for an extra metre or so than needed to have fully entered the building. It lay still for a moment, before rising up into a pillar of swirling ink, only lasting a few moments before Vince’s form stood, seemingly alone in the tower. As his natural colour returned to his body, he glanced around himself nervously; he knew the door to be locked, as he had tried it from the outside. This right hand tower seemed dark, and gloomy, but at least uninhabited. Letting out a sigh of relief, he practically fell the few steps backwards towards the door, slumping up against it, letting the exhaustion of worry flow free of his body.
That’s odd, he thought after a few seconds, Doors aren’t usually this furry-feeling...
At that realisation, the door growled. Menacingly.
“Ohhh, crap...” he muttered.

[Archer]

Chapter 9: The Battle of Neuroses

[/center]

For a good few minutes, neither figure moved, standing perfectly still in the shadows of the tower’s interior. In his terror, Vince looked around the area for any hope or chance of an escape route; the design of the building looked fairly simple. The room in which he stood now was a large, cylindrical tower, a grand spiral staircase following the wall up into higher realms of the castle; under which lay the door that Vince was stood in front of. Directly across the open hallway, another door waited, dormant, willing to be opened.

In a moment of something Vince didn’t quite recognise (he later diagnosed it as ‘Bravery’), he managed to will his right leg forwards, the first step towards the exit and his freedom. To his dismay, the furry sensation along the back of his body followed suit, not letting up the grip of fear it held against his body. He gulped, and took another step. Sure as the day becomes night, the feeling followed him once again. He took in a deep, sharp breath through his nostrils...

...and leapt, limbs flailing slightly as he pushed himself as far as he could through the air in a two-footed jump, arms stretching for a chance at the door. After about three feet, he landed face first on the slabs of stone that made up the door, quickly scrambling onto his back and pushing himself up slightly, so as to not be left any longer with his back to the growling door. Although, upon further observation, the door didn’t look very door-like at all; in addition to not being furry (and, upon a moment’s reflection, able to move under their own power), doors don’t usually have large, black claws on the end of each hand. Or, for that matter, hands. Or razor sharp teeth under their lips. Or, for that matter... I think you can see where this is going, right?

In fact, it looked more like a hybrid between a lion and a man than it did a door; which would also probably explain the door it was stood in front of.
“Meep...” Vince whimpered. But his worry only held for a moment or two before logic (or some bizarre derivative thereof) took over. Man-Lions can’t exist, he thought, that’s completely impossible, unless...

Getting to his feet again, a sense of pride and achievement filled his face, a smile crossing his lips as he puffed his chest out and strutted smugly towards the figure in front of him.
“I’ve figured you out, Mr. Lion,” he said, his voice fuelled by blind confidence, “you can’t be real, meaning... You must be some form of tailored taxidermy!”
The Lion-Man made to speak, but Vince raised a single finger, waving it condescendingly in the creature’s face.
“Uh-uh-uh, don’t try anything; I’ve seen those engineered bat-monkeys already. I know when I’m right, sir. And because I’m right, you’re just a low-level flunky in whatever this operation is... and therefore...”

Vince’s fingers bent into position as he folded three against his palm, the one used to silence the beast now pointed between its eyes, the thumb cocked back like a pistol flint, ready to fire.
“Lights out, Henchman!” he said cockily, slamming his thumb against his hand, launching a globe of ink straight into the Lion-Man’s forehead.

Glaring out from under sodden, now discoloured fur, the Lion-Man slowly swiped a hand over his face, wiping the word “Loser!” from his brow as his body began to shift, shrinking down in size as he slowly became a normal human being. He grinned.
“Do I look like a trumped-up doll to you, pipsqueak?” he snarled.
“Ah...” Vince said, his voice wavering through tones faster than Seth on a sugar-high.

Flexing his fingers for a moment, with a menacing grin spreading rapidly across his face, the man shot his fist forwards, striking Vince directly in the stomach. The wind flowing freely from his gaping mouth, he was thrown rapidly backwards, crashing straight through the door that he’d been so eager to reach. Through the shower of splinters and shattered metal framework, he could hear a cracking that sounded ominously like one or two of his ribs. Spluttering for breath as he landed, globules of inky blood burst from his lips, leaving a dotted trail of his path across the newfound room.

Coughing violently, he forced himself up onto his elbows, searing pain rising in his chest as he put unexpected pressure on the wrong areas of his innards. Damnit, he thought, got to ink it out...
Closing his eyes for a moment, he concentrated on the inside of his body, various bones and organs liquefying momentarily before returning to their natural, undamaged form. Letting out a sigh of relief as the pain faded away, he ran his hand along his chin and lower lip, mopping up the dark purple and red specks that lined his face. How perfectly vulgar, he thought, wiping the smudged marks away against the leg of his trousers.

Through the shattered remains of a doorway, the Lion-Man entered the hall, and the sound of his laughter shook the walls.
“You,” he said, still roaring with laughter all the while, “have to be the single worst Logia user I’ve ever heard of! Can’t you even activate your element subconsciously?”
In truth, Vince could do this quite easily; but sometimes when one’s emotions, such as fear, become violent, one finds that reflexes often fail you. Pushing himself to his feet, Vince faced his opponent, standing as tall as he could in spite of this huge man’s presence.

This new hall which he found himself in was on another level entirely to the one he had just entered; as opposed to being a mere few feet across, this one spanned for hundreds of metres of open space, only bounded by four stone walls and an arching ceiling. Tables and benches stretched the length of the room, constructed from plain, simple wood, and adorned with little more than varnish for decoration. No grand paintings or tapestries hung from the walls of what was evidently a dining hall; for a moment, Vince was struck dumb.

“This,” he said after a few second’s observation, “is the bleakest, blandest room I have ever laid eyes on...” This comment drew only more hilarity, the Lion-Man literally clutching at his side with one hand as laughter forced the air from his lungs.
“Ah yes, of course, you’re the ‘Artiste’,” he said, forcing back his laughter, and twitching two fingers on each hand in a mocking gesture of apostrophes, “I almost forgot your bounty title.”
He wiped a tear away from his cheek as the last of the laughter left his system, the droplet sliding effortlessly down a black claw that sprouted from his finger, fur returning around his form as his transformation brought him back into the hybrid stage.

“Not that I understand what that means, neither,” he said, slowly but forcefully walking towards the artist, “I mean, what sorta crime do ya have to commit to get your title as artiste?” Vince smiled a knowing smile in memory of his very first offence against the World Government besides serving under the Jolly Roger.
“Graffiti,” he said, smugly.
“Pah!” the response came, “and you call yourself a pirate with something as piss-poor as that?! Art’s got no place in the coming age, boy.”
“Hey...” Vince started, his brow furrowing in annoyance that his craft was being insulted.
“I mean, I’ve heard of some crazy shit in my time, but I’ve never seen a bounty head who can’t even fight! Who just sits around painting pretty pictures...”
“Hey!” he reiterated.
“...copying some dead painter called, I dunno, Pycisso or some other chicken shit...”
“That’s enough!” Vince said, his voice shaking the walls as the straw not only broke the camel’s back, but also two legs and many of its vital organs. Cupping one hand, he reached down to his feet with the other, pulling out an immaculately kept paintbrush, while a small pool of ink formed in his bowl-like palm.

“I am going to show you the true power of an artist, villain.” He said, gently dipping the brush’s fibres into the liquid from his hand.
“And how, exactly, are you planning on doing that?” the Lion-Man said, his arms crossed indignantly in disbelief. There was a pause, and a wind that came from nowhere in particular blew Vince’s golden locks gently across his forehead as he twirled the brush in small spirals in the ink, allowing it to soak up as much liquid as possible in preparation for his next move.

“By expressing my complex, frustrating emotions through the medium of a painting!” he said, his formerly confident voice cracking slightly under the pressure of an audience, before he turned and ran, vaulting the nearest table in one swift leap, landing stylishly on one of the accompanying benches, and starting to furiously sweep the brush across it’s plain wooden surface, allowing the ink to take form into a physical representation of his anguish. The Lion-Man was almost lost for words for a moment through Vince’s sheer stupidity.

“This is bull!” he growled, hunching his body low against the ground as his bone structure began to shift, morphing him in mere moments into the terrifying Lion. Letting out a colossal roar, he began to leap across the hallway, claws clicking unnervingly against the stone floor, yet Vince seemed not to notice, completely engrossed in his painting, sticking his tongue awkwardly out of the side of his mouth as the brush twirled and twisted along the surface, trying to catch the perfect angle.

Soon, the Lion was upon him, his hot breath bearing down on the artist’s workstation, as he slammed on paw against the desk, claws digging into the wood, sending splinters and splashes of ink up into the air. The thought pattern of the strike was clear in his mind; lift the paw from the desk, slam it against the artist’s head. Simple, effective. And yet when the words “Voila, complete!” rung in his ears from Vince’s lips, and he was prepared to strike, his paw lifted not, nor slammed against the artist’s head. Confused, he tried to simply lift it gently. No problems there; the claws were not stuck. And yet they wouldn’t lift more than a few inches off the desk before some force drew them back down, scratching against the table. The Lion looked down at the painting, and his eyes widened.

Vince had painted, with intimate detail, a ball of yarn.

There was an awkward stillness in the air for a moment or two, before it was broken by a low, rumbling sound that anyone would mistake for purring, accompanied by a soft scratching of claws against soaked wood. On the tabletop, the Lion padded and rolled playfully with the painting, his mind wandering around the premises of his imagination as the yarn taunted him playfully, begging him to sink his claws in and tear the fraying strands apart. The momentary collapse in sanity only lasted a few seconds, however, before he had deformed enough of the painting to make it unrecognisable. Looking up again in embarrassment, he tried to catch the artist’s eye; which was all well and good, except for the fact that Vince had vanished.

Roaring this time in rage, he took his nose to the skies, taking in the smells he needed to find his prey.

In reality, it wouldn’t have taken much effort, as Vince was currently quivering beneath the next table across, his hands clasped against the back of his head as his eyes were facing the ground, clasped tightly shut. He was rocking back and forth slightly, singing a calming song quietly to himself. His peace and quiet didn’t last long however, before a crunching sound above him cast light down onto his hiding place, a soft growl accompanying a force grabbing his shoulder, throwing him around onto the flat of his back.

“What the hell was that?!” snarled the Lion-Man, now returned to his hybrid form. Vince grinned sheepishly.
“It worked, didn’t it?”

Without thinking twice, the Lion-Man sunk a single clawed finger straight into Vince’s shoulder, roaring in frustration something that almost sounded like a word, before retracting the hand almost as quickly. However, the attack was in vain, the only thing accomplished being a finger re-colouring, as Vince’s body turned to ink around the point of impact. The Lion-Man grinned.

“Now that’s more like it!” he said, moving his body so that he was kneeling on the shattered table, “now I don’t have to feel bad about pulling out the ace in the hole!”
With a click of his fingers, something stirred in the highest rafters of the room. Bursting from the shadows with a sharp movement, one of the flying monkeys dropped down into the visible air, carrying something in its leathery hands.

“See, I knew all about you and your Logia fruit,” the Lion-Man said, his voice dripping with pride, “so I prepared ahead, and procured this here Seastone Dagger!”
Vince’s eyes darted around the room, trying to follow the monkey’s sporadic movements amongst its shrill shrieks; the object in its hands did, in all honestly, look scarily like a large, black blade.

“It’s 100% pure, concentrated Seastone,” he laughed, signalling to the monkey to drop its charge; doing so, the blade began to fall through the air, “you’ve got no chance of survival once this gets you!” But however worried Vince may initially been, it only took him a moment of rational thought before something became apparent.

“You’ve not thought this through, have you?” he said, as the Lion-Man caught the blade’s handle in one hand. He laughed again.
“What are you talking abou—“ but he never finished the sentence, before his body gave one quick spasm, as all of his energy escaped his body, and he fell face first over the edge of the table, slumping over Vince in a fit of exhaustion. Contorting his face in distaste, he began to slowly edge his way out from under the Lion-Man’s form. What an idiot, he muttered privately.

It took him a few minutes to fully escape the Lion-Man’s unintended trap, standing besides the shattered desk, dusting his clothes free of any unwanted dirt or grime. However, out of the corner of his eye he noticed something; somewhere in his transaction from the ground to a fully standing position, he had nudged the Lion-Man’s arm, and the knife now lay free of his grip, a few inches from his body. The fallen figure gave a sleepy moan, as if waking from a deep sleep.

“I’ve... ‘ve no a-advantage...” he muttered in sudden realisation. And then, his next movement was so swift, that it almost escaped Vince’s view entirely. When he caught up with the enemy’s position, he was pressed tightly against the nearby wall, shaking violently, floods of tears flowing freely down his face.
“P-p-puh-please don’t h-h-hurt me,” he sobbed pathetically, scratching at the wall as if tempting it to provide him with a safe exit, “I-I-I’m n-nothing, j-j-just a l-l-lowly l-lion! P-puh-please f-forgive me!”

Vince cocked his head on its side, looking quizzically at the man who’d tried to kill him moments ago, now reduced to a shivering pile of neuroses as his preparations had failed him. A single, inky tear traversed Vince’s fair face. So moving, he thought, as the tear was joined by others, the walls of his hall of emotion breaking down and letting his feelings be shown to the world.
“It’s Ok...” he muttered softly, “I won’t hurt yo—“

Before the word could be completed, a muffled scream permeated the border between them and the outside world, leaving an uneasy pause before the wall seemingly exploded inwards, chunks of rock and debris flying haphazardly around the hall. Screaming in pure terror, Vince instinctively thrust his hands forwards, a torrent of ink flowing from his palms, soaring through the air before splashing and slapping against the Lion-Man, and the chunks of brick and dust that had burst forth directly behind him. His eyes were forced shut once again, a combination of yelps and tears accompanying his inky finale to this encounter.

A moment or two later, and all was done. Beneath a pool of ink and a pile of rubble, Vince’s assailant lay unconscious, still shaking slightly as an aftershock of his failing Dutch-courage. Through the hole in the wall, Vince’s blurred, teary eyes saw daylight, and fuzzy looking figures.

“I... I won?” Vince said, in a tone of genuine confusion. It took a second before the realisation sunk in.

“I WON! Take that society!” he said, jumping into the air excitedly, before darting across the hall, taking brush in inky hand as he poured his life and soul into the bare, dark walls of the bleakest, blandest room he’d ever laid eyes on.

[Archer]

Chapter 10: A Beached Whale and a Wailing Bitch

Meanwhile...

There was barely a moment’s hesitation before Locke and Boboette made their move; the captain and first made had cleared the path, and all that was left was for them to follow it and rescue Mujina. Locke’s simple, clear-cut plan danced in his mind, letting him chuckle slightly to himself. It’s just one old bat and a haystack, he thought, coaxing his limbs into action as he started a relaxed sprint to the doorway, how hard can it be?

As everyone knows; “How hard can it be?” are famous last words, right up there with “It’ll only take a second,” and “Don’t worry guys, I’ll buy this round!”

Locke was the first to pass through the doorway, but upon the inside his leisurely sprint slowed to an ambling jog, and soon to nothing at all, as what he saw left him dumbfounded. This tower, on the viewer’s left hand side, had been embedded onto the wall of the mountain, seemingly drilling a hole in the rocky walls of the world; however in reality, it was quite the reverse. In many places, the cylindrical tower was incomplete, and instead joined with the mountain to create a huge, cavernous room, stalactites falling motionlessly from the ceiling, yearning to reach the flat, paved floor beneath them. A series of burning lanterns hung from ropes connected to various rocky fixtures, bringing a glowing orange light to the vicinity.

The room itself was split in two by something which caught the Fishman off guard; a valley of rushing water flowed through the centre of the room, separating the place on which the two pirates stood from the area connected to the far wall; although they still had a fair bit of manoeuvrability where they stood. The river disappeared into a thick, shadow ridden tunnel at one end, the other (being its beginning) dispersed into a thicker pool of water; an underground lake, one could say. Well, that makes things more interesting, certainly, he thought, cursing to himself as Boboette bounded in behind him. Almost as soon as she did so, the door slammed shut behind them; turning on the spot when the door shut, Locke saw what looked like a grin within the woodwork.

“Now now, my pretties,” came a high pitched, cracking voice from across the cavern, “what’s with all the rush?”

On the far platform, the old crone stood tall and proud, a stance unbecoming of how she’d seemed under Dorothy’s direct command. Behind her, a steel cage squeaked eerily on its hinges, rocking gently back and forth as its captive, bound and gagged, lay awkwardly on her side, a look of desperation escaping from her eyes. A large, iron chain bound it to a higher place in the rooftops, its ominous creaking echoing around the naturally created rafters. Worryingly, although the silvery strings could be seen protruding from the woman’s hands, the scarecrow was nowhere to be seen.

“There’s no point trying to save her,” the hag said again, raising her hands slowly higher, her fingers dangling, pointing to the ground, “this room is under my control. There’s no use; I’ll make you pay, you and your little monkey too!”
As she spoke, an array of shrill cries rang out amongst the hanging rocks, and shifting, bat-like wings could be seen behind hairy shoulders. From the corners of the room, slinking forms of patrolling lions and tigers advanced towards the pair of pirates.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Locke said, glancing around at the advancing masses, flexing his muscles in preparation for the inevitable.
“You,” the old crone snapped, raising a crooked finger to point directly at Locke, “and your meddling crewmates have ruined what little hope I had in this desolate existence! You killed my sister!”

Locke looked genuinely confused; if he’d killed anyone recently, he’d hope he would’ve remembered.
“Think you’ve got the wrong pirates, lady,” he replied, plainly as always. Her eyes narrowed to dagger-like slits as she stared the Fishman down.
“You indignant fool; you know nothing of what you have done... Allow me to enlighten your ignorance!”

•••

There was a time when we ruled this secret isle; although ‘ruled’ is not quite the correct term. My sister and I cared for the land and its people, although it was not always an ideal situation for the little ones of the Guild. They resented us, with our full-grown height and presumptive control; they called us evil, even so far as “witches” due to our shared power. But regardless, we struggled on, always doing what was best for the land’s population.

For it was our legacy from him; that man of wonder whom we both adored, admired, and loved. A true man of magic, opposed to our weak comparison born of the Devil’s loins. Our fruit fell from the world above some decades ago, and my sister and I found it upon the island’s shores. Unable to decide which of us should take it, we cut it cleanly in half, and took the first bite simultaneously. However, it seemed that the Devil chose me, and my power over life was granted. Together with my sister, I began to learn the limits and extents of its effects.

And for many years we cared for the island, and its full grown children. In time, even the members of the Lollypop Guild grew to accept us as kind leaders, and the tension soon dissolved between us. To ensure the island was always able to be watched, we took up residence on opposite sides; I build my house on the western shoreline, and her on the east. Using my ability to give life to those without it inherently, I brought about the hybrids, their purpose as swift messengers for when my sister and I watched the island alone.

Every now and again, shipwrecked sailors would drift in from above, and on even rarer occasions entire vessels would survive the fall through some stroke of inhuman luck. It soon became apparent, the state of the upper world; and even though the majority of troubles were happening on this ‘Grand Line’, the world was becoming stronger by the hour. We realised the Guild were no match for the forces of this new age, and so I brought about a new force to guard over the island; the man of straw, my greatest creation.

But then they came, six months gone. The straw haired girl and her two underlings; upon arrival, they promised us hope and protection from a coming age of terror. Like blind fools, we heeded their words, and gave them the secrets of our underwater paradise. And as quickly as their arrival had been, they turned on us.

Our power was no match for theirs; we were swiftly taken over and enslaved, forced to work for her bidding. When they discovered the true nature of our abilities, they forced me into creating their lifeless army, and took the Scarecrow for their own ends. Realising my sister’s power was of no consequence, they would send her out to shore every day in a small fishing boat, and she would collect the fish and return. If we tried to resist, they would beat us to within an inch of death, and leave us to suffer in our own blood and bruises.

And then, we made our decision; I remember the day as clearly as if it were happening at this very hour. My sister and I were chained to the walls of our quarters by Seastone bonds, powerless to do aught but fester in our inadequacy. The image of her dying soul lay flickering behind her eyes, obscured by the hair that swayed in front of her face. I tried comforting her, but it was to no avail.

“Sister,” she said weakly, after many hours of silence. My head rose in response, appropriate words unable to break my lips.
“When they send me out each day,” she said, each word seemingly requiring more effort than the last, “it is not simply for fish. They... they’re searching for—“
The sound of movement outside of our room silenced her immediately. A rough growl permeated the walls, before the presence disappeared once again. Daring not to speak as loud again, she whispered the sentence’s conclusion to me. The thought sank my heart, for we knew that there was only one who could grant them what they sought. At least before there was hope that they would tire, and depart.

“They made me promise not to tell you,” she said, “but I cannot bear this charade anymore.”
“Sister,” I muttered, choosing my words carefully, for it was a delicate proposal I was about to reveal, “let’s end it. Together.”
“Has your sanity departed?” she replied, “We cannot hope to take them down alone...”
“That’s... not what I was intending,” I told her, “We do no good as guardians of the island when trapped in this torment. I hear even the Guild has folded to their rule. We are powerless.”
“Surely you don’t suggest...”
“...taking our own lives.” I completed her sentence for her. The taboo subject hung on the air for a few moments, fermenting between us like new ale.
“...Ok,” she finally replied, shattering the silence, “a month from this day, we shall end it all...”

•••

“A suicide pact?” said Locke, disbelievingly. A wry smile crossed the old crone’s lips.
“Quite,” she replied, her smile turning sour as rage overtook her senses, “and that meeting took place exactly one month gone! This would have been our ultimate hour! But you took her life before its time!”
“Look, Crazy Lady, I’ve got no idea what you’re talking ‘bout!”
“Do you deny your ship fell from above this very morning?”
“Well, no, but...”
“My dearest sister, if you recall my tale, spent the days fishing on the coast. As she was doing this very day, until your clumsy crewmen landed your ship on top of her!”
“You’ve gotta be kiddin’,” Locke began in protest, but upon a moment’s consideration of this crew and their luck, this situation seemed more than entirely conceivable.
“Do not protest!” the Witch screamed, her finger pointing once again at Locke’s form, “I saw it with my own two eyes! And now, the pretty little daughter of your captain will join me in my plan as substitute, and you are powerless to stop me.”

“Bullshit,” Locke spat, readying himself in a final preparation for assault. He barely had time to move, however, before a swift flick of the Witch’s wrist sent the wild beasts roaring after him, bounding and pouncing at him from all directions. One or two got beaten away, but soon the Fishman was overwhelmed by pure numbers. Claws dug into his grey skin, the pressure of paws forcing him to his knees. Many of the beasts still patrolled the borders of the room, but a good dozen had taken place to subdue Locke.

“It’s useless,” the Witch said again, her voice bordering on manic tones, “I know all about you, you man of the Sea which turned against him, a beached whale amongst his people. And I know of your captain, and the first mate, and the artist. Even this girl behind me proves simple to decipher. But what I can’t figure out,” she shifted her finger across slightly to the right, where the almost forgotten member of this congregation stood on all four limbs, lips furling, baring yellow teeth, “is your place on their vessel, Monkey.”

Locke laughed openly, taking the extra pain it brought on his body as the claws dug deeper without regret, until his laughing died down to a sneering simmer.
“You really don’t have any idea how strong a gorilla is, do you?”

At the conclusion of that sentence, Boboette’s clenched fists rapped against her chest, her hind legs propelling her forwards as the natural drumbeat echoed around the hall. Slamming her fists together into one massive sphere, she swung her arms around in one swift strike, her attack colliding sideways with the shoulder of the Lion who held control over Locke’s back. In a yelp, the creature’s body shot across the hall, slamming into a sharp rocky outcrop and exploding in a cloud of fluff and sand. The pressure lifted from his back, Locke forced himself back to his feet in one powerful gesture, shaking the remaining beasts from his body, and darting towards the ravine that split the room.

“Take them down!!” the Witch shrieked, as the rest of the pack left their patrolling posts and headed into the fray. Unfortunately for them, Locke was already nearing the edge of the room divider. Before any of the creatures could reach him, he’d launched himself into the air with a single, colossal leap. One of the lions followed him into the air, however, swiping a claw along the back of his leg moments before colliding with him full on, knocking a good few metres off of his total trajectory, before it fell down towards the rushing torrent beneath it, its own momentum cut off completely.

Locke landed heavily against the craggy path that edged the crevice in the ground, a sharp pain resonating through his chest as a result of his collision. Grasping quickly at the ground, he turned his head once he’d got a decent grip, watching as the lion’s body disappeared into the darkness of the tunnel, and from the corner of his eye, he could see Boboette tearing through dozens of the manmade beasts, though taking almost as many hits as she was giving. Awkwardly, he pulled himself over the ledge, coughing up a glob of sticky, red liquid as soon as he was stable. He rubbed a hand over his chest, feeling something unnaturally sharp. Damnit, he thought, must’a cracked a rib...

The Witch strode towards him, kicking him sharply in the shoulder, forcing him up onto his side, teeth gritted to help ease the pain. She knelt down low, looking the Fishman directly in one of his eyes.
“Can you determine why the Scarecrow is my greatest achievement, Fishman?” she said, her voice laden with disapproval.
“’cos you made something uglier than you?” he spat in response, flecks of blood hitting the side of her face. Calmly, she wiped them away, before returning her attention to the fallen pirate.
“If you look at these living taxidermies,” she said, gesturing to the lions and tigers prowling silently behind her, “I need only use my ability on them once to give them life. From that moment, they will remain conscious until such time as most of their body is destroyed or separated from itself. With the Scarecrow, however...”

She took a few steps back, sweeping her arms outwards, indicating the ground beneath them both. Locke titled his eyes so that he could see the floor; he had barely noticed it before, but all around him lay fraying strands of straw.
“With the Scarecrow, however,” she resumed, her fingers twitching ominously, the strings of translucent energy tugging and twisting at their tips, “I gave life to every individual straw in his body; no matter how much you tear, how much you separate and destroy, he will simply stand again...” she pulled her arms high above her head, the strings seemingly becoming taut, the straw beginning to twitch and turn as Locke scrabbled to get himself upright, “as he will now!”

At her command, the straws began to fly in spirals around Locke, obscuring his vision of anything else. They began to rapidly clump together, continuously striking against Locke’s person in vital places; he was forced onto the flat of his back, as the barrage took to his face and chest, his eyes watering as the straw dug into the dozens of cuts and sores that littered the Fishman’s skin, battering against his broken rib, enhancing his pain tenfold; but Locke grimaced through it. After a few moments, the straw had taken the shape of a human being, straddling the fallen Locke, arms pressed tightly against his shoulders.

He struggled with all his might, but it was to no avail; when it needed to, the straws were soft, and gave just as much as was necessary, but when required the pressure became so great that not even his might could shift them. The Witch towered above him, her face filled with scorn.
“And now, pathetic Fishman, you watch your friend die with me.” She said, turning, dismissing him entirely, and facing the cage. On top of him, the Scarecrow shifted, the straws passing around him, lifting him up off the ground against his will, until he was stood, also facing Mujina’s prison, the straw man still holding him captive. Behind him, he heard a sound that sounded like a heavy object landing on rocks. He grinned.

“Too bad,” he said, through bloodstained teeth, “that you forgot the monkey!”

Boboette charged past the Fishman and his captive, swinging another sideways axe-strike that hit Locke directly in the stomach. Coughing up another wad of blood, he wondered for a moment what the hell she was playing at as he was launched into the air; but it soon became apparent that, while the old crone who she proceeded to tackle to the ground was her original target, her strike on her comrade had forced the Scarecrow to disperse into a cloud of falling straw. Once again, Locke grinned, but this time it was short lived, before he felt the hard rock of the mountain give way to his form, feeling fresh light against his skin and fresh pain beneath it.

Much to his surprise, he didn’t fall very far after breaching the outside world. Heaving himself up off of his back, he glanced around his surroundings, his vision blurring as the adrenaline in his system kept him conscious. It took him a few moments to realise, but he had landed on the bridge across the towers; the very bridge that Dorothy had stood on as this whole situation began. Shaking the rubble from his head and shoulders, he was about to head straight back into the fray before a realisation dawned on him.

Turning, he surveyed the bridge, and found, to his delight, that it had been left untouched since the beginning of the combat. Taking the few painful steps it required, he knelt down, his hand smoothly caressing the surface of the object he had desired.

Dorothy’s rifle lay dormant against the cobbled pathway.

A genuine smile crossed Locke’s lips, as he picked up the weapon, inspecting its polished wooden handle, the shining metalwork that covered its form. He ran his fingers along the shoulder rest, noticing the engraved image of a seagull near the base.
“Been robbing the Marines have we, missy?” he muttered to nobody in particular. Pulling back the metal handle half way along the top, he inspected the contents of its barrel. Custom made, it seemed; a spring loaded rifle designed to hold two bullets; no doubt a technique used to catch ignorant enemies off guard. Minus the bullet used against Badger, only one remained.

“Looks like I gotta make this one count...” he muttered, and ran to the hole he had just created in the mountain. Lying down on his chest (which took more effort than it should have), he placed the rifle’s butt against his shoulder, and aimed the barrel down towards the fray that was taking place. In the few seconds he had been absent, the Scarecrow had plucked Boboette off of its mistress, and the two were now locked in what seemed like a futile battle, every landed strike of the gorillas being matched by a rapid reformation of the scarecrows body, and a strike of its own in reply. Meanwhile, the Witch stood by the cage, her arms raised, and hands pointing towards the cage, as if about to activate some demonic ritual.

Calmly, Locke closed his eyes, and saw everything clearer than he ever could have naturally. Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger, and watched besides himself as the bullet whirred from the gun, spinning rapidly as it cut through the air, piercing the Witch’s left hand before striking against the lock of Mujina’s cage, ricocheting against the slick metal, and subsequently penetrating the crone’s other hand. In a shriek of pain, she fell to her knees, as the lock hung broken, the door of the hanging cage swinging casually open.

“Still got it,” Locke chuckled, placing the rifle gently back against the ground, before jumping back down into the cavern. Painfully leaping the gap once again, he brushed past the distracted Scarecrow and sobbing Witch, helping Mujina towards the door of her cage, and quickly removing her restraints. Clambering out of the cage, her body was shaking as she looked the battered Fishman from head to toe.

“Are you alright?” she said, her voice quaking almost as much as her body.
“’snot that bad,” he lied, before nodding towards the Witch, “sorted her out, though.”
“That was luck!” Mujina retorted. However, a creak from the ceiling cut her off from any further comment, as the bullet’s final action before coming to rest was revealed; one of the hanging ropes that strung up the lanterns had been nicked, and was rapidly fraying down until only a thread remained. Darting out of the way, Locke, Mujina, and a few seconds later, Boboette, managed to get clear as the oil based light fell the dozen or so feet from its resting place, smashing against the hard paved flooring. A number of the sparks caught on the Scarecrow’s legs, and in a burst of silent screams, its entire body was up in flames.

“No,” Locke muttered in disbelief, “that was luck.” He wondered for a brief moment how the Captain was faring. As for Seth, he didn’t much care.

“You bitch!!” the cry from beside him came, which, if he was honest with himself, was not the sort of retort he’d been expecting. However, after his somewhat battered brain had processed it properly, he realised that it wasn’t Mujina. The Witch was on her feet again, bloody hands twitching in uncontrollable spasms, as she rushed the pair in a final, desperate frenzy. Locke made to protect her, as he always did, but his body refused to listen; the cumulative damage on his system was overwhelming, and it simply wouldn’t listen.

He could only watch as the crone’s bloodied hands struck Mujina square across the chin, knocking her backwards, and causing the attacker herself to shriek in pain once more. However, the unexpected was, as ever, ready to pounce on the unsuspecting like a horny dog on a businessman’s trouser leg. Where most would have fallen, Mujina stopped, seemingly suspended in the air, until one could see her palm flat against the floor, her body bent into as near as a ball as the human frame could manage. The scene remained paused for a few moments, until whatever celestial being held control over dramatic imagery let events proceed as planned, and the Badger’s daughter pushed forwards on her one arm with all her might, extending her body to its full.

Her feet slammed directly into the centre of the Witch’s chest, causing her to be knocked back, powerless to resist, stumbling, winded, through the steaming ashes that had been her greatest creation but moments ago. Unable to stop herself, the woman stumbled until there was nowhere more to stumble, falling effortlessly backwards into the ravine that split the room. A splash of water signified her entrance into the underground river, followed by the splashing and spluttering of her attempted final words.

“I’m... I’m melting!” she cried, amidst the water that poured over every aspect of her body. Locke took two steps forward, peering over the edge of the ravine as the woman’s body disappeared into the tunnel.
“No you’re not, you’re senile!” he shouted at her rapidly retreating form.
As the feeling of the sea dragged her slowly deeper and deeper into its grasp, the Witch’s face curled into a smile. It’s finally over...

The three pirates stood amongst a hall of inanimate taxidermy, filled with the smell of charred straw. That is, at least, until the largest of the three fell flat on his face, the extent of the fatigue overpowering his will to stand. The other two knelt beside his body, scouting around the area for anything to aid their fallen comrade. And as they did so, the most curious of noises entered their ears from the raucous outside world...

Meanwhile...

[Archer]

Chapter 11: Breaking the Scorpion’s Spirit

“Seth, split up!”

The first mate wasted no time in obeying his captain’s command, nimbly flicking his spear from where it lay on his shoulders, giving it an experimental twirl before rushing the silver tinted man, weaving left and right in a fashion to make his intent somewhat unpredictable. Covering the distance between them in a matter of moments, he gripped the end of the pole tightly, darting upwards in a sharp jump at the last moment, before swinging his weapon around in an arc of rushing air, the flat of the spearhead colliding heavily with his opponent’s head. A resounding ringing soared through the air, the sound of metal on metal, as the man was knocked to the ground, rolling a few metres before springing back to his feet, as if nothing had happened.

A plume of dust took to the skies as Seth skidded to a halt, the tip of his spear skimming across the ground as he flicked it around in his palm, placing his hands a few feet apart on the weapon’s hilt, ready for the next attack. Across a couple of metres of flat rock, the bounty hunter held one fist in the other palm, cracking each of his knuckles in turn, while his lips displayed a smile of devilish intent. Reaching behind himself, a single ‘click’ rung out from the form of Seth’s opponent, as he unattached something that had been fastened to his shorts, surprisingly unnoticed by any observers until this point. Bringing it clearly into view, he ran a single finger along the blade of the axe, a metallic ring pervading the air, only adding to his visage of menace.

In these early stages of the fight, there was little room for idle words, the two warriors launching into close up conflict, Seth’s spear dancing around the battlefield, lunging forwards and backwards, evading the axe’s assaults before lancing onward, aiming to strike whichever part of his opponent’s body proved most accessible; however, every time the spear’s head dug into the man’s skin, it would only proceed at most a centimetre, before glancing off at an awkward angle, deflected by something beneath the surface, leaving the first mate in a prone position for his opponent to strike; it took a lot of effort on his part to receive any less than a decent amount of cuts and scratches.

After the mutual onslaught had lasted for a minute or two, Seth sprung back away from the fray, allowing himself one more lunge as he did so, pushing the spear forwards by its base, the tip slicing into his opponent’s cheek, before it slid off to the side, following the result of all previous hits he had made. A quick flick of his wrist brought the weapon back into his control.
“What’s with him?” he muttered to himself, “It’s like he’s made of steel...”

His opponent laughed a deep chuckle, gently tossing his axe up into the air, catching it each time with ease.
“Very astute, especially for one as dim-witted as you,” he said, his mouth curling into a viscous sneer. Catching his weapon’s handle for the last time, he shot forward, swinging the axe down in an attempt to catch Seth on the chest; moving quickly, he shifted his weight, dodging to the left, leaving the blade to skim straight past him. Without breaking face, the bounty hunter stopped his swing dead, reversing the momentum, and catching Seth square on the chin with the handle of the axe.

Knocked back, Seth staggered a few feet, the ringing in his head only accompanied by the memory of the unnerving cracking noise that had occurred upon impact. Regaining his composure, he opened his mouth for a moment, rotating his jaw quickly to make sure that it was still attached correctly. Finding that it was, he returned his attentions to the matter at hand, managing to block the next incoming strike with the blade of his spear, locking the two fighters in a stalemate. From behind the shining edge of his axe, his opponent’s lips stretched into a venomous grin.

“Your style is outdated, ‘Scorpion’,” he said, his voice steely and unfeeling, “the art of spear fighting should have been abandoned centuries ago.”
“But you’re using an axe!” Seth retorted, not letting up his hold on the struggle between their weapons. A single, loud laugh burst forth from the enemy’s lips, his head jolting back with the reflex, before he returned his attention to the pirate held up against his blade.
“We are entering the new age,” he said, his eyes shimmering with prospects of the future, “I may indeed fight with a bladed weapon, but in these times, you should never place all of your faith in a meaningless lump of materials; In the coming age, you must adapt to survive...”

As his words drifted lifelessly into the air, his jaw clicked open slightly, a welling orange light glowing in the depths of his throat. From the funnel-like protrusion on his head, a thin wisp of steam began to drift into the sky.
That doesn’t look fun, thought Seth, quite accurately. Letting up on his end of the hanging confrontation, he dived to the right, his opponent’s axe catching him on the back of his leg, digging a sizeable cut out of his flesh; however, this was a far favourable situation when compared to what would have happened had he remained stationary, where a plume of flame was now snapping and snarling at the world around it, as it burst from his opponents lips.

Seth stumbled as he landed, a searing pain running up his leg as a trickle of hot blood ran down it, but he did not fall. Turning on the spot, he faced his opponent once again, ensuring that he placed most of his weight on his uninjured leg. His eyes were wide, and sparkling like the sky on New Year’s Eve.
“Are you,” he started, his voice filled with wonder, “a dragon?!”
The man’s metallic chuckle once again drifted through the air, sinking unnervingly into every part of Seth’s being before he spoke.
“No, you simpleton,” he said, “my name is Woody Cutter; a Cyborg.”
“Your name’s Woody?” Seth retorted, the end of the sentence unnaturally witty for the young man’s natural intellect, “Wow, Ironic...”

Cutter’s brow furled with distaste, as he twisted his wrist in small circles, his axe following the path along the air.
“Regardless of my name, the simple fact remains,” he ran a finger along the cut beneath his eye, only a thin sliver of blood smearing across the digit, “that you cannot lay a serious hit on me with that weapon of yours.”
Seth looked down at the shaft of his spear, running his hand tentatively along it, his mind flowing with memories of the past.
“Stinger’s never let me down before...” he muttered softly, almost inaudibly, until his attention snapped back to his priorities, his face filling itself with a wide grin once again as he faced his impatient opponent.
“And anyway,” he said, flexing his wrist in a fashion similar to the Cyborg’s own, “I’ve not really been trying yet.”

With that, both sides of the battle marched to war; only the impact of this fight was somewhat more dramatic than the dull footsteps to the beat of a war drum. With a quick flick of his wrist, Cutter threw his axe spinning towards Seth, who managed to redirect it with a twist of his spear head. However, while distracted by this, the Cyborg closed the distance separating them, sending his fist to collide with the pirate’s stomach. His spear spiralling through the air, he caught his opponent’s wrist with the shaft, pushing the attack off-target, leaving him to simply punch the air. All it took was to complete the movement, and the spearhead was ready to slice into Cutter’s hip. However, before the weapon could connect, a quick palm strike knocked it off course.

The battle continued like this for some time, neither side gaining nor losing ground, stuck in a perpetual spiral of exchanged blows and blocks. A right hook caught in mid motion, a stabbing strike deflected with a swing of the leg, a pair of kicks cancelling each other out mid-movement, such attacks were coming and going with unwavering ease. Blocking an overhead smash with the handle of his spear, Seth allowed the attack’s force to buckle his defences, hopping backwards and leaving Cutter stumbling forwards slightly. Spinning his spear round, he caught the Cyborg between the eyes with the base of the spear’s pole; the only result being a subtle ringing in the air, and the spear to circle back the other way.

“This is getting nowhere,” Seth muttered, stroking his chin, seemingly deep in thought. After a few seconds, he clicked his fingers, pointing to the sky in apparent realisation. Inverting his spear’s position, he slammed it into the ground, the head digging itself a temporary home in the rock.
“New plan!” he said plainly. Cutter, having recovered from the attack that did him no damage, looked at his opponent quizzically. Although not worried, as such, he was curious as to what he was planning.

Taking a deep breath, Seth lowered his body slightly, spreading his legs slightly apart as he did so, clenching his hands into tight fists. He drew back his right arm, straightening the left, letting it point towards his opponent; looking up, he gave the Cyborg his signature inane grin.
He’s going to punch me? Cutter thought, genuinely bewildered, then let him come!
Lowering his arms by his sides, his fists clenched, he puffed out his chest slightly, standing ready to take the blow, and embarrass the foolish pirate.

Seth had been stationary for a few moments before he began to move again, shifting his weight subtly around his body, preparing himself for the strike. When he spoke, his voice was deeper than normal, and laced with a cocksure tone that was unbecoming of his appearance; as if he was imitating another person entirely.
“Scorpion...” he said, before bursting forwards in a seemingly unnatural acceleration, appearing at the Cyborg’s form in less than a second.

“PUNCH!” he concluded, his fist shooting directly into Cutter’s stomach. The swirling air around his fist almost looked like it was taking shape; something similar to a stinger, or perhaps a beak (although such a phenomenon is, of course, impossible). Cutter’s eyes widened in surprise upon taking the hit in full force, as he felt a jolt of something in his gut, before being picked up off his feet by the sheer force, thrown across the courtyard by sheer momentum. Passing the other inhabitants of the battlefield at a speed unexpected from a flying metal man, his flight path only terminated upon collision with the mountainside; which subsequently caved under his weight, punching a sizeable hole of falling rocks and rubble through into whichever room it was that lay on the other side. A splashing noise pervaded the air amidst the crashing and crumbling, alongside the faint sound of falling tears.

Before Seth could complete his victorious pose (which just begged that tagline “Show me your Moves!”), his captain’s shout forced him back to his regular self:
“Damnit Seth, you’re breaking copyright!”
Scratching his scarred arm ashamedly, he shuffled awkwardly on his feet, impressed by the success of his attack, but disappointed by his captain’s disapproval.
“Sorry, Cap’n...” he muttered. That was, of course, until a sickening ‘crack’ brought about a sharp pain in his wrist. Biting onto his wavering top lip to stop himself from crying out, he looked woefully at the slightly offset wrist on his arm.

“Cap’n! I think I’ve broken it again!” he wailed, but to no avail, as Badger was already preoccupied once more with his own affairs. Looking around desperately for something to aid, he soon found a shattered piece of the gate (which had been broken off by his captain’s unusual entrance into the courtyard) that was almost exactly the length of his forearm. Placing his palm against his wrist, he winced slightly as he gave it a sharp push, snapping the bone back into line with an eerie ‘crunch’. Gingerly, he took off his shirt, and used it to bind the metal pole to his arm as a makeshift splint. Carefully, he flexed his hand and fingers, checking that he had kept his functionality. It hurt, a lot, but everything was still in working order.

And in good time, too; the shifting of rocks and stone across the courtyard signalled the Cyborg’s return to form. Displacing dust and chunks of shrapnel from his body, he stood up straight, his body creaking and squeaking as his metal joints forced themselves to move. Running a hand over his stomach, he found that the metal plates that lay beneath had been dented, the impact of Seth’s surprising punch having moulded the metal anew. He grunted displeasingly.

“Looks like I’ll have to pull out the stops with you, irritating brat,” he growled, running his fingers along his dented stomach until he found what he was looking for; a concealed clasp on the left hand side of his chest. With a soft click, its hold gave, allowing a door to swing open, his abs giving way to a hidden cavity within his chest. Reaching within, he withdrew a small, metal oilcan, edges bronzing over with rust. As it moved, a distinctive liquid splashing could be heard as it manoeuvred its way around its housing.

Silently, he placed the spout of the can to his lips, letting the black liquid flow freely into his body. After a few seconds of consumption, he lowered his arm, letting out a sigh of relief as he felt the energy flowing through his veins. Experimentally, he moved his arm around, the limb twisting and turning with ease; where a moment ago it had been riddled with awkward noises, the movement was now silent.

Before Seth could say anything at all, Cutter flexed his wrist, launching the oilcan across the battlefield to extent at which it whistled as the air flowed in and around it. The speed at which it travelled was incredible, striking Seth in the shoulder before he had chance to react, and knocking his body off balance. Staggering backwards, he watched the can fall to the ground, before returning his attention to his opponent across the battlefield.

That is, except for the fact that he’d gone.

“Shit,” Seth cursed, as he glanced around himself, darting to reclaim his spear, which he’d left embedded in the rock. Before he could reach it, however, the Cyborg appeared at his side, a sideways strike of his fist aiming for the back of the pirate’s skull. The hit landed, forcing Seth to fall rapidly forwards; he twisted his head slightly moments before he hit the ground, so that his neck wouldn’t break upon impact. His effort was successful, but the hit was still immensely painful, causing him to almost bounce across the ground, rolling roughly across the solid rock. Dust seeped into the wound on his leg, causing the seeping pain to worsen slightly more with every roll. As his momentum gradually ceased his journey, he pushed himself up with his good arm, using the last of his movement to regain his footing, and grabbed hold of his spear, which he had now reached. He could feel something hot and wet against his face and neck.
“What the hell was that stuff, Powerthirst?!” he said, touching his hand to his face, just to confirm that the hot and wet stuff was in fact blood, not, as he had momentarily hoped, the breath of many cuddly puppies.

Not a moment passed before Seth was under attack again, the Cyborg now seemingly moving at impossible speeds. With his spear in hand, he had a better chance of blocking the onslaught, but his fractured wrist and other wounds from the battle slowed him up considerably. After taking his fifth sizeable hit, his unwanted skidding journey brought him face to face with something which lay discarded on the ground. His signature inane grin returned to his features, as his mind raced with something along the lines of an idea.

Grabbing the oilcan, Seth pushed himself once again to his feet, shaking the metal container quickly to check its contents. The playful slap of the liquid against the can confirmed his hope that the Cyborg had not consumed all of the liquid. Brandishing the oilcan towards Cutter, his grin only widened, confident he was about to turn the tides back in his favour.
“Aha!” he exclaimed, “Now I, too, shall have gratuitous amounts of energy!!!” with these words, he put the can to his lips, and in one, long sip, emptied the can’s contents.

The can hit the ground with a soft metallic tinkle, bouncing once or twice before rolling calmly away. Dropping to his knees, Seth’s cheeks puffed up like a hamsters, as a sickly green colour rose from his torso, filling his face with an unnatural hue. He slammed the fist of his good arm against the ground, as the black liquid burst from his mouth, splattering against the ground. His body was wracked with shivers.

“Fool!” came Cutter’s harsh tone, as his foot collided with Seth’s stomach; the sickened first mate having no time to respond to the Cyborg’s insane movements. Propelled into the air, Seth’s was as in control of his body as a rag doll, limbs moving through space under their own will. Before his ascent could be completed naturally, a hand grabbed his ankle, pulling him straight back down onto the ground. And in turn, the pain from this venture had not fully registered as he was tugged back to his feet, and hit with a roundhouse to the gut. With a crack that sounded and felt like two of his ribs breaking, Seth was sent soaring, but once again he was cut off short by a fist colliding with his back. As time passed, Seth slowly became almost unaware of what attacks were landing where, as he was powerless to retaliate, dragged slowly deeper into a world of pain.

Finally, the relentless assault let up, Seth staggering slightly on his feet as the Cyborg took a step backwards from his pummel-bag. His fingers were still wrapped tightly around the handle of his spear, its tip digging small circles in the dust as it dangled from his hand.
“Do you understand now, ‘Scorpion’?” Cutter said, looking his target up and down, “by the looks of it, you’ve now broken 7 bones in your body. One of which was caused by the last hit you landed upon me. A runt like you is undeserving of such a bounty,” he turned away from Seth, taking a few steps towards a more open area of the courtyard, as the perfect choice of words came to his mind for destroying the boy’s soul.

“Firstly,” he said, placing one finger upon another as he began his list, “I’ll finish you here. Then, I’ll hurry to your comrades; that precious girl of yours has no doubt already fallen at the Scarecrow’s hands. I’ll take care of the Fish, and bring that pathetic gorilla to her end. Save your Captain, who will no doubt soon fall at the hands of ‘Ruby Slippers’ Dorothy...” although he made such a claim, he took no time from his victory speech to check if such a fact was true; he didn’t need to. His superior never failed.
“And while all of this takes place,” he said, turning back towards the bedraggled pirate, “You are powerless to defend any of the—“

The last thing Woody Cutter would ever see was the tip of Stinger as it penetrated the spot directly between his eyes.

The spear flew straight through its target, sending chips of metal and splashes of blood pattering to the ground all around him. As the spear’s path concluded with it becoming lodged in a far wall, the Cyborg’s corpse fell lifeless to the ground. Though his body was shaking, somewhat violently around his broken wrist which had just concluded the battle, his face was fixed steady; a look of pure, unadulterated resolve painted perfectly across his features.

“No one threatens my nakama...” Arachna D Seth said sternly, as the exhaustion of the battle slowly regained his body from the clutches of adrenaline, and he fell limply to the ground. His body ached, blood was beginning to crust up around some of his wounds, and his eyes felt heavy; but before they closed completely, an unusual sound reverberated around the battlefield, and the pirate could see a blurry shape high up in the sky.

“No way...!” he said, as excitedly as his current state would allow, as his eyes finally forced themselves shut, and the first mate slipped into unconsciousness.

[Archer]

Chapter 12: Unfortunate Revelations

“Seth, split up!”

The first mate wasted no time in obeying his captain’s command, grabbing his spear and beginning his attack on the second of the bounty hunters, knocking him a decent distance away with his first blow, and leaving the two leaders to their own devices. Badger, although remaining stationary for the most part, flexed his muscles systematically through different parts of his body, ready to ensure that nothing caught him off guard; at least, not in physical terms. A few feet across from him, Dorothy rocked back and forth on her sparkling ruby heels, bouncing up and down in a hyperactive impatience. There were a few minutes of silence, broken only by the faint clink of colliding metal from their fighting second-hands, before the bounty hunter finally caved.

“Oh, come on,” she muttered, as Badger eased through his last few stretches, “How long are you gonna keep me in anticipation here!”
“No one’s stopping you from startin’ anything,” he retorted, slowly moving his neck in a small circle, “I believe it was you who wanted something from me, anyhow.”
“Well, there is that,” she muttered, “but where’s the fun if I just beat on you, when you’re not fully prepared!”

Badger didn’t quite understand where this ‘thrill of the battle’ mentality came from; it was a problem that his idiotic first mate suffered from in part, as well as many of the pirate and marine crews that he had encountered on the seas. It wasn’t that he couldn’t sympathise; not like he couldn’t appreciate the adrenaline unleashed in the heat of battle. Nor was it that he couldn’t hold his own. But he saw it as just one part of the adventure, and not always a necessary one; the other areas are far too often overlooked.

“In that case,” he said, as he completed his final warm-up and removed his boomerangs from their sheaths, “come and get me!”
“For god’s sake,” Dorothy moaned irritably, “Why are you making this so goddamn boring? You know how many pirate crews we’ve had down here in the last half year?”
“Nope,” Badger said, truthfully.
“Six, excluding you,” she answered, “and not one of them gave me the opportunity to strike first. They made it interesting.”

“Well, what can I say,” Badger chuckled, “I guess I’m just a different breed of pirate.”
Dorothy let out another signature laugh; her head rocking back as she exclaimed her reaction to the heavens, before returning with her own retort.
“Well, quite, ‘Last Man Standing’,” she said, a grin spreading across her lips, “You know, back on the surface, I heard quite a lot about someone who sounded awfully like you... I don’t remember him having his own crew, though. He was part of some other rag-tag bunch of lowlifes...”

At the conclusion of this sentence, Badger’s face slipped slightly, becoming gaunt and serious, a look that had not been seen from him so far upon this island.
“Must be thinking of someone else,” he said, gruffly. Dorothy’s smile only widened.
“You know,” she said, as she interlocked her fingers behind her back, and leaning forwards, her stance enhancing her child-like demeanour, “We weren’t always Bounty Hunters. Back up on the surface, we had real jobs!”
“And I care why, exactly?” Badger quipped, his expression immediately returning to how it stood before, as if his shift of mood had never existed.
“Oh, you don’t, yet,” she said uncaringly, “but since you’re being boring and not giving me something to push back against, I might as well give you a little insight,”
“The hell do you mean, ‘insight’?” he retorted, his suspicions becoming slightly aroused.

“Well, in my old line of work, they called me “Ruby Slippers” Dorothy... Dya know why that is?” Badger’s ensuing silence forced her to continue; “It’s because of my unique fighting style... I learnt to fight using only my legs, staining my shoes ruby red with the bloo—“
“Oh, fucking please!” Badger interrupted, his eyes rolling in their sockets, “any pirate worth his gold has heard of Chef Zeff’s Red Shoe style. Get your own angle, missy.”
Obviously displeased, Dorothy crossed her arms, her brow furrowing, her eyes glaring at the pirate from underneath them.
“Well, fine,” she spat, sourly, “maybe I should just skip to the punch line, then!”
“Which is?” Badger replied, his voice weary, unaware of what this seemingly pointless conversation was leading to.

“Which is,” she said, moving her crossed arms to grab the bunched-up sleeves of her chequered red dress, “what this old job was.”
Giving a sharp tug on both her sleeves, the fabric gave under the force, and both simultaneously tore from their fastened position, leaving a few frayed edges, and revealing the Bounty Hunter’s arms fully to the world. On her right hand shoulder, a light blue tattoo lay under a deep looking scar, an ‘X’ dug out of her flesh. The emblem of the tattoo was a seagull.
“The name they gave me,” she said, as the telltale signs of a good mood flushed back into her features, “was Commodore “Ruby Slippers” Dorothy”

Badger’s eyes widened in realisation; if she was a Marine Officer, then it explained the speed, it explained her kicking strength (outside of her own training), and it meant the pirate captain was in a deep, deep pile of...
“Shi—“
“Soru!” she interrupted before he could complete his expletive, and disappeared into a blur of speed. With less than a second to spare, Badger crossed his arms over his chest, tilting his wrists so that his boomerangs provided a barrier on either side of his body; and in the nick of time, too, as his assailant’s foot collided with the blade on his left, sending a shower of sparks dancing into the air.

“Not bad,” she laughed, her feet barely touching the ground before she disappeared again, just in time to avoid Badger’s retaliation, his boomerang’s blade hitting nothing but air as he uncoiled himself from his defensive shell. While keeping on guard for the former marine officer’s next assault, he glanced at the edge of one of his weapon’s blades; the metal was dented slightly from where the kick had landed. What the hell are those shoes made from? he thought, before his eyes caught on another blur of the air’s displacement. Diving forwards, he rolled out of danger; Dorothy’s shining shoe skimmed over the hairs on the back of his head, before recoiling and vanishing as rapidly as it’d arrived.

During this evasive manoeuvre, Badger decided to place his faith in his chances; rapidly straightening his arm, he launched his left boomerang in a random soaring arc, the weapon slicing the air itself as it span across the courtyard. Having completed the rolling dive, he sprung to his feet, listening with satisfaction as his boomerang made a faint ‘thunk’, having hit the bounty hunter midway through her speedy technique. The weapon clattered to the floor, having hit her in the shin with the non-bladed edge; her balance compromised, the bounty hunter fell rapidly to the ground, body slamming against its rocky surface before she skidded to a halt in front of the burly pirate.

“What the fuck?!” she growled, pushing her body off the ground into a kneeling position, “How the hell did you hit me?!” Badger laughed his response, moving carefully to retrieve his weapon, whilst keeping an eye on Dorothy as she arose.
“Pot Luck,” he chuckled.
“As if!” she retorted, bending her body low, ready to initiate her next atta—
“Scorpion PUNCH!”

Cutting both sides momentarily short of their combat, Seth’s battle cry came as a prelude to the flying silver man that rushed between them both, causing the air to swirl around them, tugging on the hairs of Badger’s beard. As the second bounty hunter collided with mountain’s wall, he felt an overwhelming urge to comment on his first mate’s attack, but wasn’t entirely sure what he meant:
“Damnit Seth, you’re breaking copyright!”

He barely had time to wonder about what that actually meant before his mind was brought rushing back to the battlefield; by the piles of rubble surrounding the hole in the wall that had been recently created, he could see specks of purple liquid rapidly hardening in the sunlight. A faint splashing sound entered his ears from inside the hall; it seemed Vince was nearby, doing... something. At least, he thought, I know where the little whelp is now...

“Soru!” Dorothy’s cry derailed his new train of thought, reminding him of his current situation; he turned to where she had been a moment ago, just in time to see the ruby slipper heading for his gut. With no time to react, the best he could do was brace himself as the foot dug into his stomach, knocking the air from his lungs, forcing him to bend double. Dorothy took a step back, tapping her toes against the ground, allowing for the pirate captain to hear the soft, ringing tone it produced.

“Do you like my shoes?” she said, placing one toe against the ground in front of her, twisting her ankle as if to show it off to an avid admirer, “a present from my old boss. They’re quite literally made of rubies! Aren’t they just fab?”
She looked up from her foot, to see Badger’s fist a few inches from her face. She moved to dodge, but the unexpectedness of the attack caught her off guard; his fist collided with her cheek, sending her sprawling back a few metres before she managed to regain her composure.

“Shouldn’t take me lightly, missy!” he roared, having overcome the pain in his gut, now darting towards her new position; a skill he’d learnt was always useful. Full-of-themselves villains usually liked to gloat after landing a strong enough hit; push past the pain and you’ve got yourself a mighty-fine opening. However, as he was about to find out, the follow-up isn’t always as successful, as Dorothy’s leg rose in what he assumed was preparation for defence against his assault.

“Rankyaku!” she shouted, her foot gliding across the air in front of her, producing a shining line of rippling blue energy.
“...that’s new!” Badger cursed loudly, as the blade of energy blasted towards him. He moved to avoid it, but as his head lowered towards the ground, something unexpected caught his eye.
“Yip!” barked the small terrier which was sat in front of his right foot; the one which he had currently placed his weight upon. Unable to swerve out of the way, his only option was to continue along his path or be struck by whatever this energy was. Bracing himself for a fall, he planted his left foot, his right moving forwards, catching the animal’s side and sending him crashing to the ground. The dog yelped slightly as the boot hit, but the impact was only slight, and as the pirate hit the ground, he resumed a game he was playing, dubbed in dog-terms as ‘Jump-up-and-down-excitedly-yipping-at-things’.

Rolling on the ground, Badger moved to lie on his back, watching the blade of energy as it sliced cleanly through a nearby chunk of rock. He gulped slightly at the prospect of what would have been had he not fallen, as the tell-tale clicking of Dorothy’s shoes approached behind his head. Rapidly, he sat up, spinning around as he did so to give him the momentum to stand; but it appeared that his enemy was not interested in him at present.

“Toto!” she said, kneeling to the ground and letting the terrier leap up into her open embrace, “Did the nasty pirate hurt you, schnookums?”
Before he could even look quizzically at Dorothy’s change of mentality, let alone her use of the word ‘schnookums’ on the battlefield, she turned to address him.
“I’m surprised,” she said, looking at him with a mischievous glint in her eye, “that you know of any of the Rokushiki, being a lowly pirate and all.”
“Let’s just say,” he replied with a grin, “that I’ve got enemies in high places.”
There was a moment’s silence, as she looked him in the eyes, and his were fixed on hers in turn, each searching for some explanation from the other. It took a few seconds before either party broke the pause.

“You mean... Hadjuh?” Dorothy muttered, almost disbelievingly. Badger was taken aback slightly; he didn’t expect that this little girl would be able to link him to his current adversary this easily.
“What of it?” he said, looking at her almost as mischievously as she had at him moments ago.
“Nothing, really,” she said, turning for a moment, taking a step or two away from him, “but now I know, it makes so much sense. Hadjuh-sama was investigating you all that time...”
“The hell do you mean?!” Badger blurted out, starting to pursue the girl on her path, but before he could, she yet again gave him something he wasn’t expecting:

“Geppou!” she said, jumping a small distance into the air, before slamming her heels down against what seemed like nothing; a burst of condensed air erupted around her feet, as she was propelled into the air, the wind rippling against her dress and straw-coloured hair. After a few moments, she was perched on a balcony protruding from one of the upper levels of the towers; carefully, she placed the terrier down against the stone floor, the small animal yipping freely away into the castle’s domain. How many more of these bloody techniques are there? Badger thought, as his opponent stared down at him from high above.

“It’s really nothing,” she shouted, her voice ringing down into the rocky enclosure, “Hadjuh-sama was just my superior in the Marines. Milked the bastard for all he was worth, and then burned my affiliations with those Goody-Two-Shoes’.” Badger openly laughed at this; although she was his enemy, he rejoiced in the prospect of another who shared his pleasure in the Hadjuh’s misfortune. However, his newfound like of one aspect of her personality was no means to let up his guard; a point which she was about to prove.

“Geppou,” she shouted again, another ripple of compressed air propelling the bounty hunter into the air, before she added a second word to the ability’s name, “Skewer!” Pushing off of the air once again, she swivelled immediately mid-flight, her shining ruby slippers aimed to strike the pirate down; Badger prepared to evade, before he noticed a pair of interesting things happening. One he could see, while the other simply came to him through some inhuman sense; grinning, he held his ground.

Although confused by his lack of common sense, Dorothy continued to rocket towards the stationary captain; that is, of course, until she noticed what he’d seen. Soaring towards her at a similar speed to that at which she approached her target, a certain someone’s spear flew soundlessly across the courtyard, carrying on it splashes of blood and slivers of shining metal. Cursing her misfortune, she moved one of her legs rapidly to the side, the displacement of air changing her course just enough to leave the weapon sailing past; however, when she hit the ground moments later, she’d missed her target by a clear ten feet.

Badger watched in awe as the girl slammed into the ground, causing an eruption of rocks and dirt to fly up around her. Damn I’m lucky, he thought, if that was a hit that had been disrupted.
As the dust cleared, he could see Dorothy pulling her foot free from where it had lodged in the ground, before turning to face the pirate once again.
“That’s four, so far,” she said, her voice denoting the state of her mind, as it searched for an explanation, “Four lucky breaks. Firstly dodging the bullet; then hitting me blindly; falling past my rankyaku, and finally this. What is it about you, Horatio Badger?”

A small circle of shadow gathered over the settling cloud of dust, growing larger by the second. Badger grinned, not looking, but knowing what was to come.
“You should know already, remember,” he quipped, “I’m unpredictable.”
“But what does that even mean?!” she shouted, “Any stupid pirate can be unpredictable! I bet that first mate of yours isn’t exactly easy to read, so why are you the exception!” Seemingly ignoring her, Badger ran a few thoughts through his head before addressing her again.
“What would you say the chances are that a Sea Cow would fall from the sky right now?”

Dorothy laughed in disbelief; had the pirate gone mad? Her inquiry was going nowhere, however, so this seemed the only option.
“I don’t fucking know, a million to one?” she guessed.
“Close,” Badger answered, “It’s actually more like one million, three hundred thousand, four hundred and eighty seven to one. But around me, things like that tend to shift around a bit, since I ate a little something called the ‘Kiun Kiun no Mi’.”
“...Luck?” Dorothy muttered, before an unusual sound cut through the landscape; a deep, warbling ‘Moo’ from the skies above. She looked up, and her eyes widened in realisation.
“What the Fuck?!” she shouted.
“Unfortunately for you, missy,” Badger laughed, as the Sea Cow completed its descent upon the scene, “it’s just not your lucky day!”

Another explosion of rock and dust blew up across the scene, Badger’s hair flying wildly as displaced air brushed past him; the Sea Cow colliding in dismay with the bounty hunter, and then subsequently the ground. Poor thing must’ve got caught up in the whirlpool, Badger thought; I was beginning to wonder where Seth’d left it...

Given a moment’s reprieve by the unlikely newcomer to the scene, he wandered casually over to his fallen first mate, replacing his weapons in their sheaths as he did so. Seth lay peacefully, yet painfully, his state of unconsciousness letting him glide through the turmoil wracked in his body. Spots of drying blood stuck to the ground around him as they dripped from his wounds.
“Why’re you always getting beat up worse than me, eh?” he muttered, glancing over the courtyard to where the spear had lodged in the wall. How in the hell am I supposed to fetch that... he thought, stroking his beard casually, contemplating the situation, and how it could be immeasurably improved by a good pint of rum.

Meandering slowly back to the freshly fallen beast, he approached it gently, a forlorn look on its features enhanced by the slowly dripping water from its cheeks. Its tail flopped about this way and that, yearning to return once again to the sea which it loved. Slowly, Badger placed his palm against its face, stroking backwards along its rubbery, spotted coat.
“There there, lad,” he said soothingly, “you helped me a lot. I’ll get ya home again,”

At that moment, however, the creature’s eyes widened in a mixture of fear and pain, before it lifted off the ground, at first as if in slow motion, gradually accelerating until it was launched high into the sky, far away from the scene; Badger took a step back as the beast was forced away, glaring angrily into the space where it had been moments ago, and where Dorothy now stood, her leg lowering from its previously vertical position. Her dress was torn in places, the stitching matted with sticky blood, and her hair had fallen into a mass of straw-like clumps.

“I’ve been trying to nail Tekkai for months,” she murmured to no real person but herself, “it’s not perfect, but it’ll do.”
“What does it take to make you stop, eh?” growled Badger, his knuckles whitening as he clenched his fists tight.
“Obviously,” she chuckled, “it’ll take a bit more than that. Soru!”
As she vanished, Badger took his chances once again, knowing that the odds were on his side; taking a swift step backwards and to the left, he extended a fist to where he had previously been; the punch landed on Dorothy’s cheek on the moment that she reappeared. Knocked backwards a step, she recovered quicker than he’d been banking on, jumping forwards into a roundhouse kick. Having no other option, Badger raised an arm to block, feeling the crunch of his bone’s attempt at resistance against the Bounty Hunter’s gemstone shoes. The pair became locked in an exchange of blows, Dorothy’s ruby slippers beating more pain into Badger’s body by the second; although, he still managed to get his fair few strikes in retaliation.

Diving backwards, Badger managed to dodge a close range rankyaku, the glowing blue blade of energy flowing effortlessly past him in front of his eyes. Damnit, he muttered internally, How’m I supposed to get any answers from this bitch if she won’t stay down?

Almost in response, a roar wracked the courtyard, seemingly from nowhere. Dorothy stopped half way through the initiation of her next strike, swivelling on her ruby heels to face the source of the battle cry.
“You?!” she shouted, moments before a large, brown sphere of rugged fur struck her from her feet. Unravelling itself, the bear dug its claws into the rocky ground, screeching to a halt in the centre of the battlefield.

Turning his head, Badger took his gaze away from the creature that had just appeared, looking instead to where it had arrived from; the hole in the wall caused by Seth’s fatal idiocy. Upon the pile of rubble, a woman stood proud, the smile on her beautiful face accentuating her attractive form, as her scarf and long, blonde hair swayed in a newborn wind.

“Damn,” Badger muttered, “Even I didn’t see that coming...”