The bar sat tucked against the stadium's outer wall, a narrow wedge of wood and stained glass between a fried dough stall and a vendor selling glow-in-the-dark Vesta masks. The sign above the entrance—hand-painted, slightly crooked—read THE THIRSTY COELACANTH in curling gold letters, and beneath that, in smaller script: Cold Beer. Hot Food. No Bounties Questioned.
Atlas Acuta ducked through the doorway, his rust-red fur brushing against the frame. The lynx-Mink's blue sapphire eyes swept the room in a single glance—exits, threats, the position of the ceiling fans (three, rotating too slowly to matter), the quality of the liquor bottles lined behind the bar (mediocre at best). His leopard-like black spots shifting in the dim light, blending with the shadows pooling in the corners.
"Acceptable," he muttered, and slid onto a stool.
Lucky Roux followed, and the bar groaning under his mass. The Red Hair Pirates' cook carried enough weight to make the wooden stool whimper, but he settled onto it with the grace of a man who had spent decades finding chairs that would hold him. His round face broke into a wide grin as he slapped the counter.
"Now this," he said, his voice a warm rumble, "is what I'm talking about. A cold drink before a show. Doesn't get better than this."
Yasopp drifted in behind him, quiet as a shadow. The sniper's eyes never stopped moving—tracking the crowd outside through the window, noting the position of the bartender's hands, cataloging the exits that Atlas had already marked. His long coat hung loose over his shoulders, and the familiar weight of his rifle rested against his spine. He pulled out a stool, spun it around, and straddled it backwards, arms folded across the backrest.
"Keep your voice down," he said to Roux, but there was no heat in it. "Some of us are trying to blend in."
"You?" Roux laughed, a deep belly sound. "You blend in about as well as a Marine admiral at a pirate party."
Limejuice slipped through the door last, his long hair swaying as he walked. His expression held that permanent look of mild exasperation, as if the universe had personally offended him and he was still deciding whether to file a complaint. He claimed the stool next to Atlas, drumming his fingers on the counter.
Bō-Zak Kaminosukei entered without entering. He simply appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his gourd swinging from his belt, his unlit pipe clenched between his teeth. His gold-flecked brown eyes swept the room with lazy amusement, taking in the crowd, the noise, the woman sitting alone at the far end of the bar.
His smirk widened.
"Ah," he breathed, and the word carried the weight of a man who had just found exactly what he hadn't known he was looking for.
The bartender approached—a broad-shouldered woman with forearms like hams and a nose that had been broken at least twice. Her apron bore the stains of a hundred spills, and her eyes held the flat, unimpressed stare of someone who had seen too many pirates try to skip out on their tab.
"What'll it be?" she asked, her voice a gravelly rasp.
Lucky Roux didn't hesitate. "Beef skewers. Six of them. And a mug of your darkest ale."
"Whiskey," Yasopp said. "Whatever's open."
Limejuice sighed. "White wine. If you have it. If not, water. I'm not picky."
Atlas's ear tufts twitched. "Meat. Any kind. Bring it until I tell you to stop."
The bartender's gaze shifted to Bō-Zak. The monk had not yet taken a seat. He stood with his weight on one hip, his tattered awayo shawl draped over his shoulder, his dark hair falling into his face. His eyes—those gold-flecked eyes—were fixed on the woman across the bar.
She was a vision in crimson. Her dress clung to her curves like water, and her dark hair cascaded over one shoulder in a waterfall of waves. She lifted a glass of something red to her lips, and her eyes met Bō-Zak's over the rim.
She did not look away.
Neither did he.
"Sir," the bartender said, louder this time. "Your order."
Bō-Zak blinked. His smirk never wavered. "Chicha," he said, his voice a low, warm drawl. "Your finest. And a plate of whatever's greasiest coming out of that kitchen."
Then he pushed off from the counter and walked.
Atlas opened his mouth. "Bō-Zak, about the—"
The monk didn't hear him. Or chose not to. He moved across the bar with the unhurried confidence of a predator who knew the hunt was already over, his waraji sandals slapping against the worn wooden floor. The crowd parted around him without realizing they were doing it, bodies shifting aside as if pushed by an invisible current.
He reached the woman's table. He leaned against the wall beside her. He said something—Atlas couldn't hear what—and the woman laughed, a bright, musical sound that cut through the bar's ambient noise like a bell.
Atlas's jaw tightened.
"Does he never take a break?" he muttered under his breath.
Lucky Roux snorted into his empty mug. "Give him a minute. He's... enthusiastic."
"He's a disaster," Atlas corrected, his slit pupils narrowing. "We needed to discuss the seating arrangement. The concert is about to start, and he's out there—" He gestured vaguely toward Bō-Zak, who had somehow already acquired a drink and was now sitting across from the woman, his pipe finally lit, smoke curling around his sharp features. "—charming the fins off a fish he just met."
Yasopp grinned, his teeth white against his dark skin. "That's just Bō-Zak. He doesn't waste time. You should know that by now."
"I know he's going to get us killed one day."
"Probably," Limejuice agreed. "But not today. Today, he's just going to get himself slapped."
The bartender returned, her arms loaded with food and drink. She set the mugs down with practiced force, sloshing ale over the rim of Roux's cup. The beef skewers followed—six of them, stacked on a wooden platter, the meat glistening with fat and spice. A plate of fried something—plantains, maybe, or something local—landed in front of the empty stool where Bō-Zak should have been sitting.
"Where's your friend?" she asked, wiping her hands on her apron.
Yasopp lifted his whiskey, took a slow sip, and gestured with his chin toward the corner. The bartender followed his gaze, saw Bō-Zak laughing with the woman in crimson, and rolled her eyes so hard her whole head moved
"Figures," she said. "They always go for the red dress."
"Not just the dress," Roux said, biting into a skewer with a sound of pure joy. "It's the whole package. The hair. The eyes. The way she's looking at him like she's already decided to make a mistake."
Atlas reached for his plate as the bartender set it down—a mountain of roasted meat, charred at the edges, dripping with something that smelled of garlic and citrus. His blue eyes tracked Bō-Zak across the room. The monk had leaned closer to the woman, his head tilted, his expression one of mock seriousness. She was laughing again, her hand resting on his arm.
"She's going to eat him alive," Atlas said.
"That's his hope," Limejuice replied, deadpan.
The lights dimmed.
All at once, the bar fell silent. The crowd outside—seventy thousand strong—seemed to inhale as one. Even the bartender stopped wiping the counter, her rag frozen mid-swipe.
The big screen mounted above the bar flickered to life. It showed the stage—empty, dark, waiting. The words VESTA: WORLD DEBUT blazed across the bottom in gold letters, then faded.
The announcement boomed over the stadium's intercom, the sound reverberating through the walls, through the floor, through the very bones of the building.
"Ladies and gentlemen... crews and captains... citizens and scallywags..."
Yasopp raised his glass. "Here we go."
"The show... is about to begin."
Atlas's fur bristled. The Electro running through his veins sparked at the base of his spine, a familiar tingle that preceded battle. But there was no battle here. Only anticipation. Only the weight of seventy thousand hearts beating in rhythm.
He looked at Bō-Zak. The monk had not moved. He still sat across from the woman, his pipe trailing smoke, his gold-flecked eyes fixed on hers. But his hand had stilled on his gourd, and his smirk had softened into something almost thoughtful.
Almost serious.
"Guess he heard," Limejuice muttered.
Atlas grunted, tearing into his meat. The juice ran down his chin. He didn't care.
The lights went out completely.
The crowd roared.
And somewhere in the darkness, Bō-Zak Kaminosukei laughed.
---
The concourse had become a river of bodies.
Hongo navigated the current with the ease of a man who had spent years reading the flow of crowds, the ebb and swell of desperate people pushing toward something they wanted. His white coat—pristine, untouched by the chaos around him—stood out against the sea of casual clothes and vendor aprons.
Behind him, Charlie Leonard Wooley walked with his nose buried in a program.
"—and you'll note, if you direct your attention to the third paragraph," the archaeologist said, his voice carrying that particular nasal quality of someone who assumed everyone cared about what he was saying, "that the acoustical engineering of this facility draws heavily from the principles outlined in the Codex of Sonic Architecture, a text which, I might add, I personally discovered during an excavation in the South Blue. Ahem! The original manuscript was in a shocking state of preservation—"
Building Snake walked beside him, the massive man's presence parting the crowd without effort. His scarred face held its usual expression of stoic patience, but his eyes—dark, intelligent—kept drifting to the vendor stall ahead. The one with the long line of disappointed patrons.
Howling Gab brought up the rear, his massive frame blocking anyone who tried to cut in behind them. The Wotan's heavy brow furrowed as he scanned the crowd, his tusks gleaming. He wasn't looking for threats. He was looking for the shortest path to the seats.
"—and the application of the Golden Ratio to the placement of the speaker array," Charlie continued, tapping his program with one finger, "creates a harmonic convergence that—"
"Charlie," Building Snake said.
"—enhances the lower frequencies while maintaining—"
"Charlie."
"—clarity in the upper registers, a feature that is notably absent in—"
"Charlie."
The archaeologist looked up, his round wire-framed glasses askew on his nose. "What? I'm explaining."
"No one is listening," Building Snake said.
Charlie blinked. His eyes swept across his companions—Hongo's polite but vacant smile, Building Snake's flat stare, Howling Gab's barely concealed boredom. His face flushed a shade of pink that nearly matched the cinnabar highlights on his pith helmet.
"Ahem," he said, clearing his throat with extra force. "Well. That's. That's fine. I'll simply. I'll include my observations in my official report. Which everyone will read. Because it will be thorough. And comprehensive. And—"
"We're here," Howling Gab interrupted, pointing a thick finger toward the vendor stall.
The crowd around the stall had thinned, but the disappointment on the faces of those walking away told the story. Empty tables. Bare shelves. A few scattered programs fluttering on the counter, forgotten.
Building Snake stepped forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over the four women behind the counter. "How are sales?"
Eliane Anđel beamed up at him, her silver ponytail bouncing with the force of her smile. Her olive-toned skin glowed with the flush of success, and her blue eyes sparkled with an excitement that was too big for her small frame. The white chef's jacket—unbuttoned over a black top, smudged with something that looked suspiciously like chocolate—flapped around her as she bounced on her heels.
"We sold everything!" she announced, her voice bright as a bell. "Like, literally everything! The t-shirts, the hats, the hoodies, the glow sticks, the—" She grabbed an empty box, shook it. "Everything!"
Bianca leaned over the counter, her waist-length black hair escaping its messy bun in thick, rebellious strands. A pencil—the fourth one today, judging by the collection behind her ear—poked out at a dangerous angle. Her magnifying goggles sat pushed up on her forehead, and the grease stains on her overalls formed abstract patterns over the floral dress beneath.
"Like, I totally thought we were going to, like, have a riot," she said, her expressive hands tracing shapes in the air. "The crowd was, like, pressing in, and I was, like, doing the math, and statistically, we were, like, four angry customers away from a, like, full-scale stampede. But then the lights dimmed, and everyone just, like,... left. Like, poof. Gone. Which is, like, good, because, like, I don't think my Problem-Solver Pack has a, like, setting for 'crowd control.'"
Jannali stood at the back of the stall, her headscarf—deep purple, wrapped artfully—pulled tight against her forehead. Her large golden hoop earrings swung as she counted. And counted. And counted.
Berries filled the lockbox. Berries covered the counter. Berries had somehow found their way into her boots, her pockets, and the folds of her off-the-shoulder crop top.
"We made a bloody killing, mates," she said, her accent stretching the vowels into lazy, satisfied shapes. Her brown eyes, sharp and bright, tracked the stack of coins growing between her fingers. "Fair dinkum, I've never seen anythin' like it. We could buy a ship with this. A nice one. With a sail that doesn't have holes."
Ember stood at the edge of the stall, her petite frame pressed against the wall. Her neon-pink space buns—streaked with soot, defying gravity—bobbed as her head twitched. Her mismatched eyes, one icy blue, one gold, darted across the thinning crowd with an energy that hadn't quite settled. The charred plush rabbit tied to her waist, Mr. Cinders, flopped against her hip as she shifted her weight.
Her fingers twitched.
The crowd was too loud. Too bright. Too much.
She could feel Josiah whispering at the edge of her hearing, his voice a familiar scratch of criticism. "You're gonna mess this up. You always do. Look at you, shaking like a leaf. Pathetic."
She dug her nails into her forearm.
Focus.
Hongo pointed his thumb over his shoulder, his expression pleasant but his eyes tracking the way Ember's fingers moved. "You want to go and find some seats? The show's starting."
Eliane bounced again, her whole body vibrating with excitement. "Yeah! Let's go! I want to see the stage! I want to hear her sing! I want—"
Charlie cleared his throat. "Ahem."
Everyone turned to look at him.
The archaeologist had his program unfolded, his loupe pressed to one eye, his finger tracing a line of text with the intensity of a man deciphering ancient runes. His pith helmet sat square on his head—as always, as ever, never removed—and his leather satchel bulged with scrolls and notebooks and the accumulated weight of a lifetime of obsession.
"The most optimal location," he said, his voice taking on that lecturing tone that made people want to throw things at him, "for the ideal view is this way." He pointed toward a stairwell that led up into the stands, his finger steady. "I have calculated the sightlines based on the architectural blueprints included in the program's supplemental materials. Section 114, Row 22, Seats 9 through 15. Ahem. The angle of incidence relative to the stage's center point creates a viewing experience that is—
Howling Gab interjected, his deep voice cutting through Charlie's monologue like a blade through butter. "You heard the man. We better get moving."
He didn't wait for a response. He simply turned and started walking toward the stairwell, his massive frame clearing a path through the lingering crowd. Building Snake fell in behind him, his scarred face betraying nothing but his eyes—those dark, intelligent eyes—flickering toward Ember one last time before he turned away.
Hongo followed, his white coat catching the breeze from a nearby vent, his hands in his pockets, his expression placid.
Bianca vaulted over the counter, her boots hitting the concrete with a thump. "Like, finally. My feet are, like, screaming. And not in a fun way."
Eliane scrambled after her, her silver braid swinging. "Do you think they have snacks in the seating area? I'm hungry. Like, really hungry. I could eat a—"
"Don't say horse," Jannali muttered, stuffing the last of the berries into her pockets. "You always say horse, and it's weird."
"I wasn't going to say horse!"
"You were thinking it."
"I was not!"
"You were."
Ember pushed off from the wall. Her mismatched eyes tracked the group as they moved toward the stairwell, her gold eye whirring softly as it focused. Her fingers had stopped twitching. The voices had quieted. For now.
She followed.
Charlie led the way, his program held before him like a map, his loupe still pressed to his eye. "Section 114 is located in the eastern arc," he announced, his voice echoing off the concrete walls of the stairwell. "The approach vector requires a left turn at the top of the stairs, followed by a forty-three-meter walk along the concourse. I have timed this route. It should take approximately two minutes and seventeen seconds, assuming no obstacles."
No one responded.
Charlie didn't notice.
Behind him, Eliane and Bianca walked side by side, their heads close together, whispering about something that made Eliane giggle and Bianca gesture wildly with her hands. Jannali followed a step behind, her hoop earrings swinging, her brown eyes scanning the crowd with the watchful gaze of someone who had spent a lifetime listening to things other people couldn't hear.
Ember brought up the rear.
Her shadow stretched behind her, long and thin, and for just a moment—just a heartbeat—it looked like it had too many arms.
Then the lights dimmed further, the crowd roared, and the moment passed.
The show was about to begin.
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