Chapter Text
The Chapter 9: Welcome to Las Ventajas
Two weeks had already passed since Beatrice joined the crew, and she couldn’t deny she was getting used to it. She talked to Ikkaku every night before sleeping, played board games with Bepo, trained with Shachi and Penguin, and ignored Law’s recommendations on what not to do with enviable determination.
She had gotten to know the other crewmates better. She talked with Kumoori, who animatedly explained how he had sewn his uniform. She got scolded by Hakugan after fiddling with the weapons without permission and almost firing at the ceiling. She helped Iwashi ferment wine using an ancestral technique from Vigneto Alighieri and convinced Sango to let her grow hidden mushrooms in the greenhouse whenever she found an interesting specimen.
Tang’s laboratory was already a familiar place. The scares she gave Law every time he came in to turn off the lights thinking no one was there had decreased. He was also beginning to get used to her presence. Trice liked staying up late, creating and studying without anyone breathing down her neck telling her what to do. It was liberating.
Every now and then, when her brain seemed on the verge of collapse, she would flop onto the living-room couch facing the central window and draw the fish passing by. When there weren’t any, she would simply watch the seabed and listen to the muffled sounds of the depths, savoring the solitude that only the small hours knew how to offer.
She no longer felt so much pressure to please or impress. She understood her place there. She was there to add value, to contribute. Sometimes she felt the crew’s Jolly Roger burn on her chest like a living reminder of belonging.
Being there felt completely different from being in the Navy. For the first time, she felt chosen, welcomed. She wasn’t just a survivor of a selective sieve. She was someone who deserved to be there.
She still didn’t have the autonomy she dreamed of, and the taste of being subordinate to someone remained somewhat bitter in her mouth. Sometimes she wondered if that was really what she wanted. Other times she thought she was overreacting. Or maybe both things at once.
She wanted to yank Law’s whole beard out with tweezers, hair by hair, every time he grumbled about some idea she had or something she did. She hated that he paid attention to everything she said, even when she spoke softly. It was as if he lived waiting for her to poison someone by accident. Absurd!
There was the time he almost shoved his fingers down Penguin’s throat to make him vomit. All because he said he had drunk a purple liquid with a weird taste that had been on Beatrice’s table. She entered the lab without understanding anything and came across that pathetic scene: Law almost splitting Penguin in two with Ope Ope no Mi just to remove whatever it was from his body.
It was just beet juice.
And he still had the cheek to justify the reaction. He said it was understandable; after all, who in their right mind drinks beet juice voluntarily? It was a favor he was doing Penguin, who was curled up in the corner of the lab, visibly traumatized.
After complaining, once again, about Law’s childish palate and listing all the benefits of drinking beet juice, Beatrice warned Penguin seriously: he’d better never drink anything from her table again without asking what it was or having permission. Next time, it really could be fatal.
But honestly, that said more about Penguin’s stupidity for downing unknown liquids than about any intention on her part to poison someone.
Even chaotic, situations like that only showed how much she was integrating. Silly fights, inside jokes, sincere laughter. In just two weeks, Beatrice had already collected memories.
Like that time she was sitting in the common room, scribbling concentratedly in her notebook. Her eyes were fixed on Bepo, who, surrounded by the other crewmembers, began to squirm with discomfort under her insistent stares.
— What are you scribbling there, Coniglio? — Ikkaku asked, sitting beside Bepo, noticing the constant looks.
— I’m drawing Bepo. — Beatrice answered without lifting her head.
— Really? How cute! Let me see! — She asked, excited.
The others leaned in, curious. But the moment Beatrice turned the notebook, the commotion was instant.
— Argh, my God!
— How horrible!
— My eyes!
— Turn it, turn it, for God’s sake!
Bepo immediately covered his own body as if he could protect himself.
Indeed, it was a drawing of him. And very well done. The problem was that it was him from the inside. Full nervous system, sketched viscera, total absence of soft silky fur. An anatomical-version Bepo. Terrifying.
— Such drama. — She rolled her eyes, impassive. — Look, I drew one of you too, Ikkaku. — She turned the page casually.
— No! I don’t want to see! I’m perfectly fine without seeing it, thanks!
She promised she would make normal drawings of the crew next time, without any anatomical or visceral diagrams. Nobody was particularly eager for that.
Beatrice was getting used to it. And that also meant feeling at ease.
The first nights, it was hard to sleep in an unfamiliar place surrounded by strangers. She paid attention to every noise, the engine’s low rumble, the Polar Tang running almost silently but still loud enough to keep her awake. Now the sound had become almost a comforting white noise.
And the crew had gotten used to her too. Which, unfortunately for them, meant listening to Beatrice talk about things nobody understood or wanted to understand.
At dinner, for example, Beatrice decided to explain in detail how sea slugs reproduce. No one asked. No one wanted to know. Even more so given the context in which it came up: she’d had the idea because the slimy okra gumbo everyone was eating reminded her of a similar secretion.
— Did you know most sea slugs are simultaneous hermaphrodites? Like, they have both male and female organs at the same time. When two meet, they literally exchange sperm with each other. And some even store the partner’s sperm for weeks before using it! — Beatrice explained, gesturing animatedly as if giving a lecture, while holding a fork with a slimy okra. — Oh, and there’s a species that, after mating, rips its own penis off and-
— Shut up, Beatrice! — Several at the table shouted in unison.
— …But it grows back. — she added, with an innocent smile.
Nobody looked at the okra the same way that night.
Maybe only she thought it fascinating. But the next night, she tried again:
— Did you know there are some sea slugs that look like little bunnies?
— Enough. — Penguin stood up from the table.
— I didn’t even say anything wrong!
— Still! I’m being cautious!
Despite everything, her intelligence was highly valued when applied in the lab. Shachi, for example, could no longer live without the “miracle ointment” she had created for muscle pain, a balm of dubious smell but such good effects that he began hiding the jar as if it were treasure.
Penguin, after a mild poisoning from eating something suspicious at the previous port, started carrying one of the chewable sachets she prepared, rich in nutrients and easy to swallow. He complained about the taste, of course, but always ended up asking for another.
Ikkaku, although she’d never admit it aloud, got used to the pressure-activated cold compresses Trice developed to relieve headaches and muscle tension. Sometimes you could see her walking with an ice pack at the nape after a tiring day.
Even Bepo noticed improvements after she adjusted small things in his diet, adapting it based on metabolic observations specific to Minks. His fur grew softer, energy levels rose, and although he never said anything, he now always sat closer to her during meals.
As for Law, he never directly praised any of her creations, but it wasn’t hard to notice that some of the formulas and dressings she left in the infirmary magically disappeared. And when they returned, they had been used down to the last drop.
And the tags with the awful names she gave things… he ripped them all off, without mercy. There was no scientific justification in the universe that explained why a healing ointment needed to be called “Healicious”, or why a simple analgesic carried the absolutely incomprehensible name “Xabrunx Xip Xap Xop.” Law didn’t even try to understand. He just took a deep breath, grabbed a black pen, and renamed it “Topical analgesic — formula 2B.”
— How dare you give such a boring name to my analgesic!? — Beatrice stormed into the infirmary, holding the little bottle as if it were evidence of a crime.
Law didn’t even bother to turn around.
— No one would know that was an analgesic with that name. Now it’s called exactly what it is.
— It said on the back that it was an analgesic!
— It had the name of a witch’s spell from a children’s story.
— Because it works like one!
She couldn’t convince him to keep the names, but she swore vengeance. And somehow, that summed up perfectly the new dynamic aboard the Polar Tang since Beatrice arrived.
☾
— We’ve reached the next island on the Log Pose!
Clioni’s voice echoed through the Polar Tang’s comm tubes, bringing a sudden buzz to the submarine. Beatrice frowned, confused about how they had seen an island in such total darkness, but she didn’t hesitate to run to the deck with the others.
Leaning over the railing, her eyes widened immediately. And then she understood.
It was an overdose of light in the middle of the dark vastness of the sea. Lights everywhere, so intense and numerous they drowned out the stars in the sky. Colorful signs blinked in chaotic patterns, spinning panels sent flashes in glaring hues, and animated billboards paraded messages in exaggerated fonts. One sign, in particular, stood out above all:
“Welcome to Las Ventajas!”
You could hear loud music coming from the shore, several tracks at once, of completely different styles, overlapping into a dancing, hypnotic noise. Each melody seemed to compete for attention, as if the whole island were alive and calling to them.
The air carried the sweet and spicy smell of cheap incense, expensive perfume, and suspicious frying. This wasn’t just an island. It was a neon carnival floating on the ocean.
Beatrice watched it all with her mouth slightly open.
— Wow! Bepo, Bepo! Orsetto!¹ What is that? What island is this? — She grabbed the mink by the arm, laughing, jumping, pointing at every sign that blinked to a new rhythm. — Why are there so many lights? How beautiful!
It was the first time they’d seen Beatrice so excited about something other than biology. She could hardly stand still, practically bouncing like a child in front of an amusement park. Ikkaku, watching the scene, pretended not to find it at least adorable. Imagine having to jump for joy to handle what you’re feeling?
During her time as a researcher, Beatrice had rarely been able to visit real islands. Expeditions were all tightly controlled, and she hardly ever had permission to explore the surroundings. The interesting islands? They were far from her itineraries and even further from her freedom.
But there she was. In front of a spectacle of color, sound, and chaos, free, curious, and about to set foot on a place that overflowed with everything she’d never had: lack of control.
— It’s a country called Arenosa. — Bepo explained, trying to hold Beatrice in place before she jumped off the submarine. — From what I read, during the day it works like a normal island, with commerce, people walking the streets, that kind of thing… But when night falls… everything changes. The island becomes like a casino-city. A living betting house.
— Betting!? — Penguin and Shachi turned at the same time, eyes shining as if they had just heard the magic word.
Law let out an audible sigh in the background. He could already see the ship mortgaged before they even anchored. He’d have to put some reins on them.
— Listen up. I’m not babysitting anyone here. You’re all adults, many here older than me even. And I really don’t feel like dragging grown men out of a casino by the ear because they bet on a mutant snail race or whatever. Bet on the damned snails if you want, but have the decency to use some sense.
He started with that serious tone of someone who already knew, deep in his soul, that no one there would take it seriously. The crew paid attention, or at least pretended very well. Their little faces were as innocent as they were empty, and that was precisely the problem. But he continued, just so no one could later say they hadn’t been warned.
— So here’s my condition: you can go ashore. Walk around, look at the lights, spend some money responsibly, maybe even eat something suspicious from a street stall, though I strongly advise you not to. But if you’re going to screw up, and I know you will, at least make it a screw-up I can fix with an injection, a suture, and an ugly look. That’s it. Nothing involving explosives, diplomatic kidnappings, or a blood debt with a purple-suited pimp. Understood?
— Aye, aye, captain! — Penguin and Shachi answered in unison, enthusiasm as synchronized as it was suspicious.
— I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it! And we arrived at just the right time, right? How lucky! — Beatrice ignored the speech completely, jumping nonstop while shaking Bepo like he was a plush mascot.
Law ran a hand down his face, already regretting his own existence. And the Tang hadn’t even docked yet. He glanced at Beatrice with that resigned look. She was talking nonstop to Bepo, firing off a million questions at once, thrilled as if they were heading to a state-of-the-art lab instead of a gambling island. Seriously, had they gotten her hooked on this too?
And honestly… how wouldn’t they?
In two weeks, Beatrice had absorbed more than usual. She learned to do small repairs after pestering Ikkaku, memorized a bunch of knots that, for some reason, were extremely useful at sea, and, of course, had learned the rules of nearly all the crew’s gambling games. They started by betting beans as an incentive, because no one had enough money—nor the courage—to lose to her.
She went from being the kind of player who couldn’t bluff without narrating her intentions out loud to someone who either outplayed you with no effort or was just dangerously lucky. No one bet real money against her anymore. But it was fun to play for leisure. Blackjack, poker, rummy, dice, improvised roulettes, if it involved risk and a deck, she could play it. Shachi and Penguin were almost regretting having taught her.
— Coniglio-ya, that goes for you too. — Said Law, without even looking directly.
— That what? — She replied, frowning, distracted.
— What I just said.
— You said what?
— Tch…
He just let it go. To hell with it. Everything was going to crap anyway. He accepted it.
Minutes later, they were all scattered across the island, each one slipping into a shadier corner than the last. Beatrice vanished between pulsing signs and clouds of sweet incense. Ikkaku decided to try the fluorescent drinks sold at dubious stalls, dragging Hakugan along on the boozy adventure. Shachi and Penguin? With the conviction of two inspired idiots, they decided they would test absolutely every game machine in the place.
Law even tried to keep up to maintain some control, but he lost track of them in less than two minutes. Resigned, he stayed with Bepo, searching for a corner of the island that didn’t blink, didn’t smell like frying, and didn’t try to sell discount chips. Mission impossible.
The hours passed like a neon blur. The Heart Pirates dove headfirst into the small hours on cheap dopamine (or very expensive, depending on the bet). Shachi and Penguin were digging themselves deeper and deeper into gambling, in a spiral of bad luck, adrenaline, and pure denial.
— Oh, come on, you son of a tiger! — Shachi yelled, punching a slot machine that refused to pay out. — SPIT THE CARD OUT, YOU PIECE OF TRASH!
— Easy, man. We can still get it back. — Penguin tried to calm him with two pats on the shoulder, his tone more hopeful than their balance.
Soon their eyes stopped on a huge, imposing casino up ahead. The sign glowed in gold, or in something trying very hard to look like gold, and exuded that arrogance typical of places that want to seem exclusive. A white mansion, all refined architecture, rose under spotlights as if shouting, “look at me.” They only needed to exchange a glance before bolting toward the building.
Inside, it was even more luxurious. Everything smelled like money. Long velvet sofas, heavy curtains, gleaming floors, and a muffled hush, like even the air had been filtered not to bother anyone. Masked men and women walked by with elegant glasses in hand, dressed in expensive clothes and judgmental looks.
Penguin and Shachi would have felt out of place there… if they cared.
The side-eye came almost immediately. People with their noses in the air turned away as if the two carried a contagious disease called “vulgarity.”
— Blergh, I’m the one who should be disgusted. — Shachi faked a gag, sticking out his tongue and folding his arms.
— Tell me about it. — Penguin rolled up his sleeves, eyeing one of the betting tables with a toothy grin. — Poker, then?
He slapped his hand down on the table, the dry thud spreading through the hall. Some people flinched, others discreetly stepped away. A player or two just cast a bored look, until they heard the provocation.
— So? Which one of you rich boys has the guts to play against a pirate?
The silence lasted a second longer than comfortable. But whoever felt challenged matched the bet.
The game started calm. But soon devolved into taunts. Penguin dealt out bluffs with the confidence of someone who genuinely believed in them. He’d pretend to hold an unbeatable hand while his cards were actually crying from shame. Shachi laughed loudly, mocking anyone who frowned or hesitated before betting.
Tension climbed at the table. Some players cursed, others tried to keep their composure, but Penguin only smiled. It was a circus. And they were the clowns, armed, dangerous, and far luckier than they should be. The cards were dealt again, sliding over the felt like indecent invitations.
Penguin picked up his two and peeked without hurry.
Five of spades and six of clubs. The equivalent of a wind sandwich. But he smiled like he’d drawn a winning ticket.
— Hmm… I like it. — He said, just to confuse them.
Across the table, a masked woman with a sapphire necklace lifted her chin. Her blue eyes analyzed his every move like an interrogation.
The dealer flipped the first three community cards.
Shachi whispered beside him:
— Well? You hit anything?
— If God is good and the Devil’s no good, yes. — Penguin shot back.
The cards showed a nine, a queen, and a five. That gave him a pair of fives. Awful. Practically nothing. And Penguin excelled at nothing.
The woman bet. Just a symbolic amount. Penguin doubled without thinking.
— Let’s see if you’re still smiling when I walk out with that necklace. — he joked, pushing his chips in.
She arched an eyebrow. Didn’t answer.
The turn came: some random two. Zero help. The woman raised. Penguin called again. Without blinking.
— You’re playing dirty. — Shachi muttered. — You sure you’re winning?
— I’m not even sure what I had for breakfast. But neither is she. That’s what matters.
Last card: a six.
Now he had two pair. Better. Still weak—but now… he could lie with more confidence. The woman, self-assured, made one last big bet. Penguin pretended to think, scrunched his nose, sighed loudly.
— You know what? I’m in a good mood. All in!
The hall froze for a second. A waiter literally paused mid-step. The woman looked at him as if he were an insect that had learned to talk. But after a heartbeat of silence, she called. She wanted to see.
Cards turned. Penguin showed his:
— Two pair. Fives and sixes. Cute, right?
The woman revealed hers:
— Queen and ten. Just a pair.
Silence.
The dealer, impassive, pushed the chips to the pirate’s side.
— The gentleman wins… with two pair.
Shachi flopped back, cackling.
— You filthy worm! How dare you bet with those ridiculous cards!?
Penguin scooped up the chips like someone picking jewels off the floor.
— She bet thinking I was lying… and I was. But then the game decided to protect me. True love.
The woman stood. Said nothing. Just adjusted the necklace at her throat and vanished between the red curtains as if nothing had happened.
Penguin turned to his friend:
— There. Shall we lose it all at the next table?
— Hell no. Let’s double it.
They kept betting and, in a near-supernatural way, kept winning. Chips stacked in front of them as if the universe had decided to compensate all their years of bad luck at once.
— I don’t believe it! — Shachi hopped while hugging Penguin. — We’re rich! Rich, Penguin! I’m buying a ship just to store chips!
— Man, this isn’t normal! — Penguin laughed, squeezing him back. — We’re possessed! By Trice, for sure! Her luck rubbed off on us!
— Rabbit’s foot works, bro! — Shachi pointed at the pile of chips, eyes gleaming. — I swear I’ll kiss between her toes after this!
— Dude, that’s… What-!? — Penguin’s eyes bulged as he shoved him. — Just stop.
Maybe all those colorful drinks Shachi had been snatching from the waiters’ trays had finally beaten his brain chemistry. Penguin noticed he was leaning, like a drunk tower about to topple.
That’s when a new presence took over the room.
— Good evening, gentlemen. — Said a deep, velvety voice, perfumed with dried apricot and tobacco.
Both turned, still laughing… and stopped cold.
A tall man regarded them. He wore a burgundy suit of impeccable cut with fine pinstripes, a black waistcoat, and a velvet top hat. Tucked in the hatband, two cards—an ace and a joker—and a dark rose adorned his pocket. A red fox mask with golden eyes did the smiling for him.
In his hand, a polished wooden cane spun lazily, unhurried.
— Good… evening? — Penguin answered, his voice a notch higher than he’d like.
— I noticed you’ve been having quite a bit of fun. Luck has truly smiled on you tonight. — the man said, with a muffled laugh that felt more like part of the costume than anything spontaneous.
— Yeah… it’s been nice. And you are… who, exactly? — Penguin asked, frowning.
— Mr. Greed. — Said the man, with a slight nod. — Pleasure.
He extended a hand with trained elegance. Penguin hesitated a beat before shaking it.
— Penguin.
— Shachi. — Said the other, still breathless from the last win.
— Let’s get straight to it. — Greed went on, voice as smooth as it was treacherous. — Would you gentlemen care to join me for a game?
It sounded light, casual, like an invitation to tea.
— Hmmmm… not sure. — Shachi narrowed his eyes. — You look exactly like the type who makes absurd bets just because you’ve got money to lose and still come out winning.
That same muffled laugh slipped from behind the mask.
— My, my. I’m not the type to bet for material goods. Only… for fun. — he replied, sliding the cane through his fingers. — A light match. Friendly.
The fox eyes drifted slowly to the duo’s mountain of chips, as if reading a menu. At the same time, their eyes ran over Mr. Greed’s jewelry.
— Is that so? Let’s see then. — Penguin drawled, savoring each syllable.
They followed him to a private room in the back of the casino. It was quiet, lined with dark velvet, with warm, diffuse lighting. No dealer. No one else. Just the three of them, as if the whole world had been left outside.
Each took a seat in an armchair around the round table. Discreet luxury. The kind that wants to impress without looking like it’s trying.
— Before we begin, would you sign these terms? — Greed pulled a folded sheet from his waistcoat and slid it across the table. — I’ve had some… mishaps with other players. And frankly, I’m not in the mood for legal headaches.
Penguin took the paper, suspicious. Read line by line. No fine print, no bizarre clauses. Greed even turned the page to show a blank back.
— Looks fine. — He said, relaxing.
Shachi didn’t even wait. He grabbed the pen and signed with his crooked handwriting, almost giggling. Greed signed next, with an exaggerated flourish, then crumpled the papers and tucked them into his inner pocket.
— Very well… let the fun begin.
The first round was light. They bet symbolic chips and silly trinkets: the glasses Shachi wore (he kept them), a fish-shaped bottle opener, a tiny hot-sauce bottle no one knew where it came from.
Greed was terrible at the game. Terrible in an almost touching way. But he laughed at each loss, as if losing were the entire point.
— How about we spice it up a little? — He said, pulling three black cards from his waistcoat and placing them face-down on the table. — Let’s write on these what we’d like to receive from the other if we win. But we won’t reveal it now. Only at the end of the round.
— And what if we ask for, I dunno, the rights to some property of yours? — Shachi prodded, smirking.
— If you win… they’re yours. — Greed answered, calm, almost playful. Like he was offering candy, not assets.
The pair looked at each other. Too good to pass up.
— Hand those cards over.
Without hesitation, they wrote their wishes and stacked the cards, all face-down.
Penguin asked for Greed’s ruby ring. Shachi wrote “his ridiculously expensive wristwatch.” Greed, in turn, noted a sum of money and slid his card to the center without expression.
Minutes later, Shachi was already strutting with the watch, stretching his arm like a TV host showing a jewel on live broadcast.
— This has to be worth more than my soul! — He laughed.
Greed grumbled, but still smiled. They started again.
This time, Penguin won. He hopped onto his chair and announced he wanted a statue of himself at the casino entrance. Shachi couldn’t stop laughing.
New round.
— Don’t you ever get tired of losing, Mr. Greed? Next round’s gonna hurt your wallet. — Shachi teased, already writing on the back of the new card: “Small percentage of any property in your name.”
— Only if it hurts yours. — Greed replied, and even with the mask fixed, it felt like the fox’s smile widened.
They played. Shachi won again. Greed’s eyes widened seeing the card turned over.
— W-wait! I can’t cede a percentage of this casino!
— What?! — Penguin choked. — You own this place?
— Even better! — Shachi shouted, eyes turning to dollar signs. — We’re gonna charge rent from everyone who walks in!
Greed kept his calm for show only.
— One more round. — He said quickly. — Please. Same terms. I’ll keep my bet. You can add something, if you like. But let me try again.
His voice sounded firm, but his fingers were restless. Shachi noticed. He hesitated. He’d only been betting for kicks; he didn’t think he’d actually win. And what would he do with a slice of a casino if he was a pirate living at sea anyway?
— Ah, what’s the harm? — He shrugged. — One more.
Shachi wrote another request on the black card before returning it. They started the round again. Penguin sat out this time, it was just between him and Mr. Greed.
The mood changed. The easy laughter from earlier rounds was gone. Now the air was heavy, like something serious was about to happen. Even the silence seemed to watch.
Cards were dealt. Shachi focused, every facial muscle tight. He was still playing to win.
And then it happened. Mr. Greed won.
Shachi froze for a second. Then burst into such an outrageous laugh he almost fell out of his chair.
— Man, what cursed luck is that?! You just saved your own hide! — He yelled, pushing his glasses up, still laughing.
Penguin laughed too, disbelieving, eyes wide like they’d just witnessed a miracle.
Mr. Greed only sighed in relief, drying his hands with a small embroidered handkerchief.
— Indeed. Perhaps I’m a lucky man after all.
— All right, all right. Let’s see what you asked for. — Shachi said, still smiling, reaching for the black card.
He wasn’t worried. Greed had bet jewelry, percentages, watches… nothing absurd. All that while asking little from them. Shachi even felt a little guilty for having won so many.
The card flipped.
And Shachi’s stomach flipped with it.
Cursive, extravagantly beautiful. Clear. No room for interpretation.
“The gentlemen’s ship.”
— You’re joking, right? — Penguin muttered, voice catching.
Mr. Greed smiled. But it wasn’t the theatrical smile from before. This one was real. Malicious. The fox mask rose slightly with it.
— I’m quite sure of what I wrote. That yellow ship. Which is also a submarine. Captained by a Worst Generation pirate. Valued at a fortune in Sabaody. Yes… precisely that one. It would look lovely in my collection, too.
Their throats went dry at the same time.
— No, no. Wait. We’ll redo it! — Penguin blurted. — Withdraw the bet! We’ll start over! Like you did before!
Mr. Greed pretended to ponder for a second.
— Hmmm… no. I think I’ve played enough for today.
— What?! You can’t refuse! — Shachi shot to his feet, slamming the table. A few chips rolled and fell.
— I can. And you could have refused too. — Greed answered, standing calmly and straightening his waistcoat. — But you accepted. And I won’t.
— Go to hell! — Shachi snarled, whipping a dagger from his coverall pocket and pressing it to Greed’s neck. — You’re going to accept this, damn it!
Greed didn’t move. He just laughed.
— Such violence… Threats don’t alter contracts.
— Hey! So… there wasn’t anything in the terms about secret wagers, was there?! You can’t collect on that! — Penguin tried, desperate.
— Oh, there wasn’t? — Greed tilted his head slightly.
He pulled the contract from his pocket.
Unfolded it.
And kept unfolding.
And kept unfolding.
The paper seemed endless. The section they’d signed was there, yes. But now came clauses, appendices, additional terms, with tiny letters stretching like a carpet of doom.
— That’s forgery! That crap wasn’t there before! — Shachi yelled, pressing the blade even harder.
— I can assure you it always was. — Greed said, pointing to a line in the middle of the textual chaos. — Right here. “Hidden bets of subjective value are valid upon confirmation at the end of the round.”
He stepped back twice and cleared his throat.
— Instead of threatening me… I suggest you run after your ship. At this hour, they’re likely taking it away. But perhaps… just perhaps… you can still catch up to it.
His laugh echoed through the room. A cutting sound, bigger than the space allowed. Sweat trickled down Shachi’s forehead. His heart pounded so hard it felt like it would punch through the coverall.
But he lowered the blade.
— Damn it. Let’s go, Penguin. Now!
And the two of them bolted out the door without even looking back. Mr. Greed remained. Standing alone in the red room, laughing as if the night were only beginning.
☾
The sky was beginning to brighten, painted in shades of purple, pink, and orange. Beatrice walked slowly through Las Ventajas, arms loaded with useless prizes she’d won during the night. Her half-lidded eyes could barely track the city changing before her.
Casinos closed their doors, people dispersed, betting machines were hidden away as if they’d never existed. And she could have sworn she saw a cabaret turn into a flower shop.
She blinked hard. She must have been seeing things.
She headed for the harbor, from where she remembered spotting the Polar Tang when they arrived. But as she approached, something didn’t add up. There was no sign of the yellow vessel. Instead, two figures standing on the pier caught her eye: Bepo and Law.
The mink was in complete shock, paws on his cheeks, mouth open as if he’d witnessed a murder. Law, arms crossed, stared fixedly at the horizon, not like someone admiring the view, but like someone considering drowning his own resentment right there.
Beatrice drew closer; a few trinkets tumbled from her arms. She looked at Bepo, then at Law. Finally, she followed their gaze to the emptiness where the Polar Tang should have been.
— Law…
— What? — He snarled, without looking away.
— Where’s the Tang?
The question seemed to make his blood boil. A vein throbbed at his temple.
— You know I’ve been asking myself the same thing, Beatrice-ya? — He answered through his teeth, voice of someone clinging to the last drop of sanity.
Ragged footsteps sounded behind them.
Shachi and Penguin came running and froze the instant they saw the scene. They went still. Their souls left their bodies, looked at Law, and returned sobbing.
The captain turned his gaze on them.
He didn’t need to say a word. From their faces, it was obvious: he knew. They knew he knew. And everyone there knew the fan was about to meet a whole lot of crap.
Law wordlessly drew Kikoku.
Shachi and Penguin dropped to their knees at once.
— Captain! We can explain!
— We tried to fix it! But-
It made no difference. What came next… wasn’t pretty.
Beatrice only watched, frozen, not daring to get involved. She just stood there, staring at the void along with the first rays of sunlight—and the certainty that they’d gotten themselves into a mess far bigger than they were ready to handle.