Gale strolled behind Jack's men as they weaved through the lower districts of Marcellum, the capital of Centaurea—a city that seemed to operate on the principle of "kick downward, bow upward."
Behind him, Malko trudged along, arms bound and pride wounded, flanked by three of his crew who looked like they'd been hit by a stampede of particularly aggressive goats, who all go by one name; Gale.
They finally reached a stone building with the familiar golden seagull-and-anchor emblem of the Marines stamped above the entrance—albeit faded and covered in a generous layer of city grime.
The building was squat, blocky, and exuded that classic World Government charm: "Function over fashion, and we don't believe in windows."
Jack's subordinates came to a halt just outside the door. One of them—big guy, no chin, louder than necessary—gave Gale a nod. "Alright, this is your stop. We've got crates to unload and angry clients to charm. You'll be fine from here."
"Thanks for the escort," Gale said, giving a lazy wave. "Try not to drop anything explosive. Again."
The big guy grimaced. "That was one time."
"And yet the first mate's eyebrows have yet to forgive you."
With that, the crew left, and Gale turned to the battered, grumbling pirates at his back. "Alright, boys. Time to meet the justice system. Try to look harmless. Or at least not contagious."
He pushed open the door and stepped into the Marine branch, dragging the chained quartet behind him like a mismatched parade of regret.
Inside, two young Marine privates stood at attention behind a small reception area. One looked barely old enough to shave, and the other had the vibe of someone who'd joined the Marines for the uniform discount.
One of them stepped forward. "State your business."
"I'm here to turn in these pirates," Gale said cheerfully, yanking Malko forward like a misbehaving mutt. "And to collect their bounties. Preferably in large, cartoonishly heavy sacks of cash."
The two Marines blinked, then exchanged a look. "Right. Uh, we'll take them off your hands and check their identities. Wait here."
One of them grabbed Malko's chain while the other gestured for Gale to follow. He was led down a narrow corridor and into a waiting room that was somehow colder than the outside despite having no visible ventilation.
It was painted in what Gale could only describe as "depressing beige," with a few worn chairs, a chipped table, and the lingering smell of instant coffee and existential dread.
"Someone will be with you shortly," the private said before disappearing, leaving Gale alone.
"Cool, yeah," Gale muttered, flopping into a chair. "Nothing like being surrounded by military bureaucracy to really spice up your afternoon."
He passed the time staring at a crooked poster that read "Justice: We Don't Sleep So You Can"—which, given the slouched posture of the privates earlier, was a bold-faced lie.
After what felt like a solid fifteen minutes, the door creaked open, and in walked a man in a slightly more decorated coat—epaulets, fancier boots, and a general air of someone who took his job a bit too seriously.
He didn't introduce himself, but Gale could tell he was of higher rank than the others. Not anyone with a really high rank, for sure. Probably a commander. Maybe a very confident lieutenant with good posture.
The officer gave him a curt nod. "You brought in Burno Malko, yes?"
"Yep. Guy with the unnecessarily dramatic beard. You'll find he whines a lot but folds faster than a cheap map."
The officer barely reacted. "His identity has been confirmed. He has a bounty of 15 million berries."
Gale grinned, sitting up straighter. "Perfect. Let me sign whatever you need and I'll be on my way..."
The officer's expression didn't change. "There's a problem. For bounties over 10 million, this branch requires authorization from the commodore to release payment. Unfortunately, the commodore is currently unavailable."
Gale blinked. "Unavailable?"
"Yes."
"Like out to lunch unavailable, or 'suspiciously hiding behind a curtain while we scam this idiot unavailable?'"
The officer's lips twitched—maybe a smile, maybe indigestion. "I assure you, he is simply out of office."
Gale leaned back, frowning. His gut was doing that thing again—tightening, coiling. He'd learned to trust it over the years. After all, it had once correctly told him not to trust a man selling volcano insurance in the flattest neighborhood there ever was.
"I've got a suggestion," Gale said, casually resting a hand on the table. "How about you give me 10 million now, and a written note saying I'll get the rest once your boss gets back from his mysterious... tea party or whatever."
The officer shook his head. "That is not Marine protocol. Bounties must be paid in full, all at once."
"Convenient," Gale muttered. "And I suppose you'll be keeping Malko and his merry band of idiots in the meantime?"
"Yes, they are already in custody."
"Oh, no-no-no," Gale said, standing up. "See, if you're telling me I can't get paid yet, then I'm telling you I'm taking him back. I'll wait until Base Commander Hide-and-Seek returns. Then I'll bring him back gift-wrapped, with a bow if you want."
The Marine officer's brows knit together as Gale demanded the return of Malko. There was a flicker of something in the man's eyes—irritation, calculation, maybe both. He crossed his arms and tilted his head slightly, looking Gale up and down with the lazy contempt of someone who thought they already had the story figured out.
And oh, did he think he had Gale figured out.
Scrawny frame? Check.
Messy hair and a face that hadn't seen a razor in days? Check.
A rapier that looked more like a decorative toothpick than an actual weapon? Triple check.
To the officer—Lieutenant Folsom, not that he bothered to introduce himself—Gale looked like your typical errand boy.
Probably a cabin-hand from a merchant ship that got lucky. Or a glorified intern for a real bounty hunter too lazy to make the trip himself. These types were a dime a dozen: clueless, green, and easy to squeeze.
He'd been pulling this little stunt for years now. Shake down a bounty runner just green enough not to raise a fuss, claim the pirate, and somehow forget to process the payout. Most grumbled, but they didn't come back—either too scared or too far gone by the time they realized they'd been scammed.
And thanks to those "mistaken payments," Folsom had climbed the ranks like a rat in a candy store. He'd even managed to bribe a few influential names in Centaurea to "catch" pirates for him, just so he could show up at the last minute, slap a pair of cuffs on them, and pose for the glory shot.
It was all going swimmingly until a new branch commander was transferred to the South Blue office. That guy was a buzzkill. Honest. Strict. Probably ironed his socks. The scams dried up...
Until today.
Folsom stared at Gale. This guy looked like easy prey. He looked like a pushover.
But then—why wasn't he backing down?
Gale's arms were crossed, his jaw tight, and his eyes had that unmistakable glint. The glint of someone who'd either been pushed too far... or hadn't had his morning coffee. Possibly both.
Still, Folsom wasn't about to fold. He cleared his throat, taking on the air of someone about to say something extremely official and thoroughly slimy.
"I'm afraid," he said with a sigh that could melt glass, "that as a private individual, you cannot legally retain custody of a wanted criminal."
Gale's brow twitched. "Funny how that wasn't a problem five minutes ago when you took him off my hands."
"The extent of your involvement," Folsom continued, ignoring him, "ends at the restraint and delivery of the suspect to the nearest Marine installation. Which you've done. Good job. Gold star."
He gave Gale a smarmy smile that made Gale want to introduce his face to the nearest desk. Repeatedly.
"It's unfortunate, of course," the Lieutenant went on, shrugging like he had no control over the situation he was very obviously orchestrating, "but you'll need to return at a later date to collect your reward. There's nothing more we can do right now."
Right. And when Gale came back, Malko would be long gone, the paperwork would have mysteriously vanished, and Gale himself would be labeled either a liar or a lunatic. Maybe both, if Folsom was feeling creative.
Gale stared at the man, expression flat.
Inside, though, he was fuming.
He didn't want to cause a scene. He'd promised himself he'd lay low, avoid heat, not punch authority figures in the face, no matter how punchable they were.
But this guy? This guy had it coming.
'I swear, if this guy says 'unfortunately' one more time, I'm gonna create a whole new entry in the Marine handbook titled: What To Do When Someone Punches You Through a Wall.'
"No," Gale said, voice flat. "I'm not leaving without my bounty. You want to delay the full payment? Fine. Give me a written statement and my pirate back. I'll come back when your boss finishes his extended coffee break."
Folsom's smile faltered slightly.
"I'm afraid that's not possible."
"Right," Gale said, teeth clenched. "And I'm afraid I'm seconds away from tossing that smug face of yours through your own filing cabinet."
His fingers twitched toward his sword—not to draw it, not yet—but just enough to make the tension rise.
The room thickened.
Folsom took a step back. "I'd advise you to watch your tone. Threatening a Marine is a punishable offense."
Gale leaned forward, voice low and even. "And so is theft. Let's not pretend we're both playing by the rules here, Lieutenant Cuntbag."
That name hit the air like a slap. Folsom hadn't told him his rank, and Gale's tone said: I know more than you think I do, though it was just a lucky, random guess.
At this point, Gale's patience had completely evaporated. He knew the game, knew the script—and he wasn't about to play along. Maybe he wasn't built like a wrestler or carrying some massive cleaver of a sword.
But what he did have was an ironclad refusal to get screwed over by some greasy desk jockey with delusions of grandeur.
And if this escalated further... well.
Gale didn't even get the chance to think about how this would escalate. He was already halfway through drafting an internal pros and cons list for punching a Lieutenant when the door to the waiting room swung open with a sharp creak.
In stepped a man who very much looked like he belonged on a recruitment poster—classic Marine officer uniform, crisp and pressed like it came straight from a tailor's dreams.
He had a neatly trimmed brown beard and mustache, the kind that said I'm too dignified to shout, but I will absolutely ruin your week with a single form. A thin scar curved just below his left eye, adding a dash of "I've seen some stuff" to the whole vibe.
He paused in the doorway, frowning as his gaze ping-ponged between Gale and Folsom with the weight of a schoolteacher catching two kids mid-fight. His voice cut through the room, firm and sharp:
"What's going on in here? I can hear you two shouting all the way from my office—and that's on the other side of the damn base."
Gale blinked. 'Wait. This guy... should be the branch commander, right?
Lieutenant Folsom immediately went pale, then pink, then back to pale as he floundered to respond. His posture stiffened, and he stood a little too straight, like a kid trying to act natural after breaking a vase.
"A-Apologies, sir," Folsom said, clearing his throat with all the grace of a man choking on a lie. "This miscreant just threatened me. I was trying to deescalate things—really, sir—but he became hostile."
Gale's jaw dropped so hard it was a miracle it didn't hit the floor. "How dare you call me a Miscreant? You snake-nosed, pencil-necked scammer! I don't even know what that means!"
The branch commander's eyebrows climbed at least an inch.
"Oh, I threatened you, huh?" Gale shot back, storming a step forward as he turned to the branch commander. "Yeah, I did threaten him, but only after Lieutenant Thieving Bitchface over here tried to scam me out of my bounty money!"
Folsom made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a whimper.
"He told me I couldn't get paid without your say-so," Gale added, his tone acidic. "Which, sure, sounds legitimate—except then he tried to send me away withou so much as an IOU, knowing damn well I wouldn't get squat if I came back later."
The mustached man exhaled through his nose, rubbing the bridge of it like he'd already had a long day and wasn't thrilled about the overtime.
Gale pointed at him now, recognizing the authority in the way the guy stood, the way his uniform actually fit, and the fact that he hadn't yet tried to punch him or lie through his teeth.
"By the look of you," Gale said, tone cooling into something sharp, "you are the branch commander... and very much available."
There was a beat of silence.
Gale's hand drifted down to his sword, fingers tightening over the hilt—not drawing it, not yet, but the implication hung in the air like a thundercloud. His voice dropped, steady and calm in a way that somehow made it worse.
"So," he said slowly, "you gonna give me my bounty... or do I need to start seriously considering the consequences of leveling a Marine branch?"
Internally, his brain was running full throttle:
'Okay, Gale, this is officially the point of no return. If he says no, you either fight your way out and live as a fugitive for the rest of your life... I didn't even have breakfast. Why do these situations always happen on an empty stomach?'
'Also, why do all the bad Marines have that same smug face? Is it a uniform requirement?'
Folsom let out a strangled noise, probably realizing just how badly things were spinning out of control. Meanwhile, the branch commander stared at Gale, then at Folsom, then back at Gale again.
There was a long pause. A loaded silence.
The kind that came right before something broke.
...
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