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Chapter 6 - Prophecies, Pick-Up Lines, and Other Poor Life Choices

Perona had only just recovered when we crossed the gleaming barrier into Fish-Man Island. She'd been pounded senseless in the middle of the ocean—and not just in the physical sense. To her credit, she snapped straight back into place like a pro. I was impressed. Not many folks would be able to withstand the kind of deep-sea pressure I unleashed and still be able to stand a straight line the next day. But then again, what do you expect for a woman who's been cohabitating with ghosts and monsters? You don't get through that without some serious internal horsepower.

She was a sweet little freak. All that gothic trappings and death-humor? Armor. Naked underneath, naked wanting and filthy hunger. A born freak. The kind of woman who met you head-on, spat in your face with your name, and begged for the rest. And I gave it to her. All of it. Every last ounce of it. She swallowed me like she hadn't eaten in weeks. Like I was the only one to ever leave her breathless. And it's the truth.

But the fact is—lust is easy. Love is a complication I have no time for. And while she'd be thrilled to bind herself to me across eternity, I was not about to lay down the cutlass and take up housekeeper. We're pirates, not priests. Monogamy won't pay the crew and keep you sane. I knew I'd have to let her down eventually. Shatter the little china doll heart. But I knew this: she wasn't leaving without me. Perona was in.

The Thousand Calamities—my ship, my delight—touched down at the soft coral piers of Fish-Man Island. The atmosphere pierced the air like a splash of distrust and curiosity. Islanders gawked as we debarked. No shock there. A twenty-five-foot-tall warlord walking down their streets with a miniature goth nymph at his side? Yeah, we made waves. The kind that ripple the air and circulate the water with whispered rumors.

Perona grasped the railing with her hands, her legs feeling a little unstable—whether from the rough sea or the rougher night that had just been, I couldn't say. Probably both. Her eyes glittered with nervous excitement. She'd never seen anything like it. Neither had I. Rainbow-hued coral buildings, air streams like the blood vessels that pulsed through the air, and the smell of salt and otherness in every breath.

But I wasn't here for sightseeing. I needed bodies—skilled ones. Not warm. Not charming. Deadly. Indestructible. Monsters. If I were to ascend the crime ranks and see my face plastered upon every poster in the Grand Line, I needed something other than cannon fodder. I needed apostles. So I sought the help of Perona.

"Stay on the ship," I instructed curtly.

She blinked. "What?"

"I said—stay. No recruiting, no ghost-bullshit, no pirate Barbie playacting. Don't even try to charm your way into the crew today. I need killers. Survivors. The kind of psychos who won't shit their pants when an Admiral gives them the stare."

She pouted. Her pout was one to remember. But I was the Captain.

"Alright, alright," I smiled, messing up her hair like I was a annoying older brother. "Don't get your knickers in a twist—if you're wearing any, that is. You're still coming with me. Just dial the charm back from 'siren' to 'mildly unnerving' for the meantime."

We strolled the coral avenues, my shadow taking up the road as we passed through the city. The fishmen gazed as if I were the sea monster of their nursery stories. They whispered. They pointed. I paid them no heed. Let them gossip. Let them fantasize about monster-killing. Half the secret to legend-hood is letting people believe they will make it through an experience with you. The other half is showing them otherwise.

However, I am not here to shop for misfits.

I knew already whom I wanted.

Madam Shyarly.

The ex-prophet. The prophet who resigned from that role for not quite being able to cope with the futures that she saw. Hard luck, honey. Because I wasn't presenting her with a choice. If the destiny were torn apart, I'd remake it. If the future were bleeding, I'd seal it. My metaknowledge—my intuition, my cheat codes—would only carry me so far. Alone, I was dangerous. With her? I'd be a force to be reckoned with.

It was simpler to get to Madame Shyarly than to steal candy from a diabetic child with a sugar high. She was out in the open, out in the bright sunlight, peddling seaweed smoothies in the most gaudy fishbowl tourist trap I'd had the misfortune of seeing — Mermaid Café. Neon sign yelling like a brothel on payday, tank-glass walls like some creep's aquarium fantasy, and mermaid waitresses so bubblegum pretty they seemed like Lisa Frank puked estrogen and glitter.

I did not sneak in. I walked in. Large boots. Bigger presence. The instant I materialized near the entrance, the whole club died silent like I'd just urinated into their gene pool. Mermaid tails froze mid-waggle. Fishman, merman, and a suspiciously wet-looking perv-of-a-customer stared. I hesitated, huge body awkward in the doorway like a rowdy doorman. And then the transformation — a polite little form-shift. From clodding brute to stunningly handsome son-of-a-bitch. Tall, dark, and handsome with just a touch of crazy in the eyes to make your therapist's worst nightmare a reality.

The door creaked open to the sounds of some mermaid warbling a love song about shipwrecks and broken hearts. How charming. The sort of atmosphere you'd expect to find in an under-the-sea Hooters.

And there she stood—Madame Shyarly. The fish-woman herself. Half siren, half shark. She was tending the bar like it was in her debt. She gazed at me, sized me up, and smiled at me with a combination that was 30% hello and 70% get-the-fuck-away. Her gaze swept over me once, then twice, and then the third time—which is the one that lingered. I have that face, the sort that leads people to question whether they will bed me or flee.

"You want to talk?" she said, her tone suspicion and sultry contempt.

"No," I said, slipping into an effortless lean against the bar as if I'd been born there, flashing her the billion-dollar smile they'll inscribe on my gravestone. "Not talk. Just a little walk. Something intimate."

She paused. Clever girl. Clever enough to know that you don't just dump some guy who's as dark as the room when he enters. But curiosity? Curiosity's a bitch, and I was wearing temptation like perfume. She looked me right in the face and nodded. "Five minutes. I have a business to run."

Outside, the rain-soaked crowd returned to daily business as if I was never there. Welcome to One Piece — where a tall future war criminal is just Tuesday.

We strolled, tension clinging to us like wet leather. Shyarly never once avoided looking at me, her eyes slicing into me with every look. "What is this really about?" she questioned at last. "You want your fortune told?"

I laughed out a harsh laugh. "Please. I know the ending to this story. Spoiler: I win."

She raised an eyebrow. " Then why are we having this walk then?"

"Because I'd like to have you on my crew."

As if I'd just dropped a warhead into a kiddie pool.

Her face cracked apart. "Your... crew?"

"That's right." I smiled as if I'd just given her a diamond ring and a gun full of bullets. "You're coming with me."

She took a step back automatically. "Why would I do that?" she said steadily — but with a shiver underneath. Fear and intrigue? A little of each.

I slid in close enough to make her gills flutter. "Because you're bored. You wake up every morning to the same recycled dreams, same clients, same prophecies. And at the deep, dark center of you, you want something real. Something dangerous. I can give it to you. I can give you chaos on tap water, adrenaline for breakfast, and a way to rewrite fate with a middle finger."

She examined me. Measuring me as if I were a weapon she didn't know how to use.

"Do you just want my foresight?" she inquired hesitantly. "That it?"

"No." I gave her a look that could melt steel. "I want you. Not the crystal ball. You. The woman who works with time like a lover she is doing her best not to stab. You are a seer, yes, but you're a game-changer too."

And there, in a moment, her cheeks flushed pink. Hook, line, and sucker-punch.

She knew she was being hunted. But it wasn't stalker-victim tackiness. I was gathering puzzle pieces. And she? She just happened to be the bloodied one with the prophecy. The puzzle piece to top them off.

"Okay," she said, voice as tense as piano wire strung to the breaking point. "But I have roots here. The girls, the café—that's my responsibility. I can't just up and leave and walk away from all that. I need time. Time to set things. To find someone I can trust to take the reins. They're like... family."

I nodded, as if I was interested. Spoiler alert: I wasn't. But good liars smile, and I have a PhD in BS.

"Okay," I said, flipping a coin into the jar of imaginary fucks. "Take your time. Just remember — patience is for suckers and saints. And I am neither of those things." I leaned in, face to face, close enough for her to smell the threat under the cologne. "You know where to look for me. Biggest ship on the island, looks like a war crime rolled in chrome. The Thousand Calamities. Has a pretty nice 'fuck around and find out' ring to it, don't you think?"

She pierced me with her eyes as if she were about to cut me in half. But she nodded. And that was sufficient — that was all I required. The bargain was struck — not in a shake-hands sort of way but in a glare that said I hate you but I am probably just going to let you ruin this pussy anyway.

I tilted my head, spun around on my heel, and left her in whatever combination of guilt, expectation, and perhaps some degree of light sexual disorientation I'd provoked. Let her brood. I had better things to do than babysit an indecisive attachment-phobic fish-goddess.

The ground beneath my boots crunched like broken bones — in a gratifying kind of sick way. I walked the streets with swagger because if I wasn't lord of anarchy yet, I would be soon. Mermaids returned to cackling and fish-tail flipping, acting like nothing unusual had transpired. Good. No witnesses equal no funerals.

Now. Tech time.

I needed a Den Den Mushi. Not the kind your average tourist bought to serve as a dwelling and lie about how much fun Fish-Man Island really was. I needed a snail with balls -- a wire with the power to topple governments, and the volume to shatter your eardrum with the facts. The kind of line that could reach down into the depths of the world and drag something screaming into the light.

I then marched into the nearest shop that didn't smell of desperation and overpriced trinkets. Plonked a fat wad of beli on the counter that made the till wail. The shopkeeper — a desiccated fishman with the backbone of a shrimp and eyes that had just seen the resurrection of the loan shark — gazed up at me.

"Uh, I don't have the change for... for that much," he stammered.

"Then don't." I smiled. Widely. Too widely. "Indulge in something stupid. Or a coffin. Dealer's choice."

He blinked. I think his soul momentarily departed the premises.

My Den Den Mushi was unique. Custom job—a blue shell made of denin, a crooked grin, antenna slicked back with the smug face of a superior creature. When it rang, it didn't chirp. It laughed. My laugh. Full-blown nutty, highly personal.

This small son of a gun was more than a phone. It was a middle finger to the whole ocean.

And I dialed the number — my number — into it. The number I'd promised Lucci when I'd been bluffing like a poker deity on a meth high. It did not exist then. Damn well does now.

Then the waiting. The hours of sitting upon my chair of hope and expectation that Shyarly hadn't gotten cold fins. Or perhaps swum off. But suppose she hadn't followed through. Well, I had thought through that too.

Back at The Thousand Calamities, I left Perona on sentry. Not that she'd be able to do so in the absence of her devil fruit, but the chance that she'd at least try was quite enough to keep her occupied and away from me. And she made a decent sentry as it was—if you could ignore the random laugh whenever she saw an imaginary ghost in the sea.

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