starbound pirates

contents

1

The Starbound Pirates' ship had three masts and three observation decks, and it was in the lowest, enclosed one that their navigator took her night's watch.

Kat's sleep schedule was clockwork in the solar sense, how years of sailing with her previous crew had her wake up at twilight no matter the season. She could go to bed after this and wake up promptly after sundown with no alarm or intention to. Her solitary bedroom on Hawkins' ship, away from where all the men berthed, meant she could come and go for her dawn sights as loudly and carelessly as she pleased—well, if she was using her room at all—but now she had to tiptoe past several of her crewmates' bunks… if she wasn't on night's watch.

It was a bit treacherous to climb the ropes with her wooden guitar case on her back, but she made it with some creative rope play, which she hoped no one would miss. There wasn't enough light with tonight's balsamic moon for her to knit or trace the templates she needed for her sight reductions, so she dug out the instrument she hadn't touched since impulsively following the Wind Witch to her new life. Kat waited until most of the crew had disappeared below deck before she opened her case.

Hawkins and Faust bought it for her 21^st birthday, a nylon string with a wide neck like the one she'd learned with and left behind in the North Blue. It was unusual for its deep navy finish, the color of most things Hawkins gave her for the night sky.

She hummed as she tuned up the loosened strings and was about to move on to the high E when a voice piped up, "That was sharp."

Kat jumped, her heart truly skipping a beat before her eyes managed to find the speaker. Rylie peeked over the ropes to the deck of the crow's nest, her expression mild but her eyes sparkling in the dark.

"You scared me."

"I'm sorry," the Siren said with hardly any remorse.

Kat huffed and stared her in the face, plucking the B string—"I don't think"—then the B an octave lower—"so…" She frowned and loosened the peg. Rylie sang the note, quietly, helpfully, and Kat could tell she was good, the touch of vibrato at the end, her warm timbre. The crew was growing quickly, and Kat knew if she was guarded, she wasn't the only one. Despite Amy's introduction of Rylie as the crew's musician, Kat had yet to hear her sing… until now.

"You should do that more," Kat said.

"I didn't know I had an accompanist. I mean—" Rylie backtracked. "—if you want."

"I'm not very good. And apparently you have perfect pitch."

"You've done fine without a piano."

"I just remember the first note of a bunch of songs."

"Any I know?"

Kat squinted, then patted the spot next to her. This observation deck was a mass of cushions, more like a pit of pillows under a dome-shaped skylight. They'd yet to sail through any storms, but Kat thought it'd be a lovely place to take a nap. Maybe she could leave navigation to Mina and mope in here when the clouds matched her mood.

She played a thumb brush as Rylie climbed up. "This one's popular in the North Blue," Kat said, before singing the first verse of a ballad. Rylie listened, her brow furrowed, and then joined partway through the chorus—with different words.

"Interesting," Kat said.

"You're thinking it too?"

"The melody's old. So old it can travel between seas?"

"Snails can." Rylie pulled a pillow into her lap and folded her hands on top, resting her chin there. "Your version is…"

"Dark." The folk songs that the rest of their village knew were often about murder, but with that memory came others, of trying to teach Hawkins guitar and his shy request that she sing his favorite song, her family's strange relief and confusion that she was so assimilated to their new home, his clumsy hand on the neck mimicking hers—"Do you play any instruments?"

"Piano."

"Ah." Not the easiest thing to travel with, or the cheapest thing to find. "Would you… want to learn guitar?"

Rylie's eyes widened. "Really?"

"If you can tolerate my voice."

"That's no way for a musician to talk."

You didn't want presume. "I'm not—"

"It's a little lonely to be the only one," Rylie said.

You supposed that was true. What passed for the Hawkins' Pirates' musicianship were incantations from the more magically-inclined, while you mostly amused yourself. And your captain.

"You're good. You sound like you. Well, maybe you could speak higher—" Kat bit her lip. Rylie really did have a good ear, catching the stark difference in her singing and speaking range, a consequence of not wanting to sound girlish on a crew with only men. "—but don't apologize."

Rylie yawned, vocalizing at the end, and Kat breathed a laugh. "Go to bed."

"I'm not sleepy," she said even as she dragged herself over to the ropes to leave. "Come get me the next time you play. We should do a little set for everyone."

"That sounds humiliating."

"You get over it."

Kat smiled. "Alright."

2

Sir Crocodile was in a foul mood and had been for weeks ever since he returned to the New World city where he'd expected to find something of his only to find you gone—the fortunetelling navigator who seduced him with embarrassing ease, crashing into his private dining room and his mind like a parasite. You seemed so settled on that island with your clientele and aversion to piracy Crocodile had no reason to think you wouldn't stay put.

"I thought you were retired," Crocodile said.

He loomed over you where you sat in a semicircular booth at a tavern, and your seatmate, a woman with a star on her forehead, cowered in fear. You looked up at him coolly.

"Sir," you said, respectful as you sighed and whimpered it that night. "How have you been?"

He addressed the gaggle of women generally, and their reactions varied from hostility to amusement. "I'm here to collect my navigator."

"Your navigator?" Crocodile recognized the dark-haired woman at the bar as one of the Whitebeard Pirates. She idly swished the cocktail in her hand.

"Yes," Crocodile hissed.

"…Did I say that?"

You blinked up at him, genuine confusion in your brow.

"Yes," he repeated, less confident.

To his bewilderment, you tapped his hook, which rested on the table as boxed you in with his large frame. "Let's talk somewhere else."

And you shimmied out from under him like he didn't intimidate you in the slightest, beckoning him to follow you to a more deserted part of the tavern. Apparently, the Starbound Pirates' collective allure did little to undercut their notoriety—or rather, their raucousness—so most customers made themselves scarce. You leaned against a wall, cradling your drink in your hand and looking at him so innocently he was afraid he'd believe whatever excuse you had.

"You look good," you said, and Crocodile barked a laugh.

"I don't. Because of you."

He knew it. His skin had a gray pallor it hadn't had since Impel Down, and he needed to wash his hair, pomade grimy on his scalp but neglected from his mad tracking, more flight via sand than leisurely sailing since he saw you in the background of a photograph in a news story about your crew.

You bit your lip. His mouth went dry watching your pretty white teeth sink into what he knew was pillow soft skin, how small as you were you could only smatter his chest with sweet little kisses when you sat in his lap and goaded him to—

"I need to confess something," you said.

Crocodile didn't trust himself to speak.

"I… don't totally remember what happened that night." To your credit, you looked embarrassed. "I don't usually go for wine."

He closed his eyes. "What do you remember."

"Uh. You let me eat half your risotto like I was a stray animal."

He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Which I appreciated! I couldn't have drunk that much without it. But…" You shifted your weight between your feet, in tall, heeled boots that didn't make a lick of difference. "Mostly, it's just: we went left the restaurant for your hotel, and you were gone in the morning."

"I left a note."

"Oh," you said sarcastically, "you left a note."

"I made my intentions clear."

"A note with no contact information! Not that I thought I had any reason to see you again because, as established, whatever we discussed escapes me."

"What we discussed," Crocodile repeated. "And the sex? Was it that… unremarkable?"

You set your drink down—a whiskey ginger, by the smell— and crossed your arms. "You either overestimate yourself or underestimate my alcohol tolerance."

"You didn't seem drunk to me."

Sure, your breath was wine-sweet and your eyes very shiny and your smile very broad, but he didn't exactly have a basis for comparison.

"It ached for a couple days," you said like it was clinical information, but your normally daring eyes dropped a little. "…Which I like."

Crocodile's lip curled. "Oh?"

You seemed to shake yourself out of it. "But if we discussed piracy, I can't imagine I said I'd go anywhere."

That was the thing; you hadn't. You told him about your previous crew, and you talked around your last captain, from your childhood in the North Blue, but landed on an uncertain note. "It'd have to be the right ship." Crocodile took that to mean you thought of Hawkins' as the right ship, which wasn't coming back. You were too obviously weary and resigned, and far too intriguing for Crocodile to risk saying something flippant as half that generation will die in the New World, because you knew. Intimately. You let him in on your secret that you were no clairvoyant. "It's only ever re-telling the present," you'd said, with such lucidity how would he ever think you were drunk? "Paying attention to people and circumstances."

So Crocodile thought the only way to lure you from your melancholy, your preemptive mourning of some twerp from the Worst Generation, was to seduce you right back.

"And the Wind Witch? I assume that's your captain." The cogs turned in the back of his mind all through this. What was that Whitebeard woman's name? He'd seen her at Marineford…

"I think you should recruit subordinates when they're sober," you said seriously, like you were counseling him.

Crocodile had to laugh. "Is that what she did?"

"And she's not my captain. Well, not this week."

"…Excuse me?"

You looked at your watch, a silver thing with worn leather straps, and he thought he ought to replace it. "In about four minutes it'll be Mimi."

"Who?"

You jerked your chin the direction of your crew, and about a dozen pairs of eyes stared at the pair of you, some of them waving ironically. One of the few who didn't was the woman with a star on her forehead, staring at her own watch while another with brilliant red hair seemed to reassure her with a big grin on her face.

"I'll let her know you don't want any trouble," you said.

Crocodile looked back at you, brow arched. "Don't I?"

"Not if you want me to kiss you goodnight."

He was glad his cravat covered the color he thought must be crawling up his neck. Your smile faltered, a bit of uncertainty wrought by his hesitation, and he growled. "Come here."

3

The Starbound Pirates were loosely gathered in and around the kitchen nursing all varieties of morning brew when that day's issue of the World Economic Journal finally made its way into your hands. It took its sweet time, with the shock of the king of Dressrosa stepping down from the Warlords of the Sea just as your crew was to rendezvous the Straw Hats in that country's waters per a confounding call from Nami. Your leafed past the front page to the other story causing a stir around the breakfast table—that your alliance was now threefold—and froze mid-bite of your crusty toast.

"Kat?" Mina said.

The cartographer tilted her head, clearly trying to catch your eye, but you snatched the single page out of the newspaper as you stood. "Excuse me. I—"

You didn't have any concise explanation. You narrowly sidestepped around Kendall and her pot of coffee, to a squeak of surprise from the chef, and almost bashed your head into the underdeck hurrying back to your room for your Den Den Mushi.

"Hello?"

"Faust." A long beat passed. "Faust?"

"I'm sorry," the feline Mink finally said. "Am I talking to—?"

"Yes, hi. Sorry. Um. Where is he?"

"…Ashore."

"Put him on."

"That'll take a wh—"

"I can wait."

You knew each other well enough that Faust heard you could not wait. You heard some jostling, like he ran with the Den Den Mushi cradled against his front, a muffled exchange, and then an inhale of breath.

"What the hell is this alliance?" you said without a greeting.

"Oh? Good morning to you." The voice on the other end of the line could not be further from what you expected. "Hawkins, you have a woman calling."

Eustass "Captain" Kid would have an accent from the South Blue, so this was—

"Apoo." There he was, distant but unmistakable, and you felt ill. "I have a hard time believing that."

"Oh?" the Longarmed captain singsonged. "What's your name, darling?"

You bit your lip. The news story was true.

"Give it—to—" There were sounds of struggle, and you reminded yourself these men were in their thirties.

"Yes, what?"

Always so rude, abrupt and dry. Not the cold of the earth, but wooden, or like straw.

"Hi."

To his credit, he didn't hesitate as long as Faust. "I thought I might hear from you."

"Hm. You told that Scratchmen you didn't believe a woman would ever call you."

"Not no woman," Hawkins said. "Just the strangest one."

"Why would I call you? Besides the obvious."

"You miss me." He said it like it meant nothing to him, which is how you knew the opposite was true. "But you can't say it outright, so you have a lecture instead."

Bastard.

(Well, that was just factually correct.)

"And I drew the High Priestess this morning," he said.

You didn't even know where your decks were, much less where you put his Vivre Card. The thing burned up and regenerated any time he engaged in combat, and you shut it in an empty tea tin you hadn't seen since you left the port city where you'd lived for two years since leaving him.

"You're alone?"

He sighed. "For now." Part of you ached for him. It sounded far too lively over there for his or your tastes, which was why you relished your current ship's relatively cellular archictecture, although…

"What are you doing?"

"I should ask you the same thing."

"…Huh?"

Hawkins cleared his throat. "'Warlord of the Sea, Trafalgar Law, forms unprecedented alliance with Straw Hat Pirates,' let's see… 'joining a preexisting coalition between Monkey D. Luffy and the Starbound Pirates.'"

"That's different," you said hotly.

"How? Straw Hat is insane. I saw Caesar Clown's broadcast."

"Hawkins. Biochemical weapons? With what money?"

"It was more Kid's interest."

"I can't believe you."

"Spare me."

"No, not the weapons shopping. Kid's so much worse than you with your proxies. Their body count—"

"Yes, yes, I've been a good boy while you're away."

Your neck heated. "You make it sound like I'm coming back." But he was right. You tracked headlines about the Supernovas, and his reputation for bloodshed fell short of Kid's or even Law's, which meant he kept to your rule, rather your request that he only use Marines or other pirates for Straw Dolls.

"There's always a chance."

He had that chance quantified, but knew better than to tell you.

You knelt on your bunk and whacked your pillow into a vertical shape to rest against. "We'll see if I lose my mind, like you clearly have. Saturn is in Pisces, you know. Don't die before it gets to me."

Hawkins laughed, that rare, low roll you heard with your ear on his chest, or felt against your lips when you kissed the tattoo at the base of his throat that matched yours.

"Is this coven of your strong?"

Your felt your brow twitch. "It's a proper pirate crew, Hawkins. Just because it's mostly women doesn't make us less serious than you."

"I didn't say any of that."

"You implied it."

"I only meant you wouldn't join a crew you had nothing in common with." At that, your eyes drifted to the obsidian Amy pressed into your palm one late night sitting on your nightstand, and you sniffed.

"They're strong. I'm safe."

"Good," he said. "That's good."

You fidgeted. You thought he'd be more bitter since you told him at Fishman Island that you couldn't be a pirate no matter what you felt for him… but maybe he was too tired, or he'd forgotten. Apoo and Kid sounded exhausting. You could ask him how that alliance came about, what their goal was, but instead you said, "What are you wearing?"

Hawkins nearly choked. "Excuse me?"

"Come on. I'll tell you if you tell me."

"Two years," he said. "Two years without a word and you want—"

"I'm wearing that pajama set with the shorts. Do you remember?"

You knew he was pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm starting to think you weren't worried about me at all."

"Of course I worry," you said. "I love you. Always will."

He sighed. "So don't torture me. I'm in mixed company."

"Hmm. I'm not. I'm in bed."

"Really, Miss Navigator."

"Our course is set," you said, and regretted it.

"To meet Straw Hat?"

"Hey." But he knew you too well for you to hide anything. "I don't know what he's thinking. We're about to find out."

Hawkins grumbled. "And you trust this man?"

"Yes," you said. "I do. Can you say that about Kid and Apoo?"

"It's early days," he said. "What about the Surgeon of Death?"

That was the whole issue, wasn't it? The crew seemed pretty divided but largely curious with regards to him, but your history with the Straw Hats meant you'd follow Luffy at least to Dressrosa.

"That name takes me back," you said. The Marine in the North Blue had their hands full with both your crews, and later with that defector of theirs.

"Do they know? Your history."

"No," you said, "And I'll keep it that way."

"Hmm. How are they supposed to trust you, much less Trafalgar Law?"

"I just navigate. We don't need to get personal."

He huffed a laugh. "Well, none of them have what you need. To get personal."

It was the crassest he ever got unless you were properly fucking.

"Hawkins," you said, your voice lower than you intended. "We're both in the New World. Quite far east of the Red Line."

"What of it?"

"Nothing," you said.

"Nothing. You always say that when it's very much something."

"Do you miss me?" tumbled out out of your mouth before you could stop it. He chuckled, and it grew and grew into a laugh, and your neck felt hot, and you squeezed a little. "Stop it."

"You're hardly ever like this," Hawkins said. "It's… sweet."

"Sweet?" Your voice was becoming shrill. "Fuck you."

"You can," he said. "Just tell me when."

He was hardly ever like this, and you hated to think where he learned it.

"I hate you," you said through gritted teeth.

"I kn—," Hawkins started, cut off by your slamming the speaker on top of your snail. It stared at you for just a millisecond longer than it should have, which made you think—

"Tor," you called. Your next door neighbor had ways of listening. A knock came through your shared bulkhead, followed by several more, all along the surface. It could have been half the crew in there, for all you knew. You did register movement through the passageway and dismissed it as the late risers getting up. Your irritation at Hawkins turned to—well. You lived in close quarters, so could it really be a violation of privacy? And you felt like you were finally becoming friends with enough of them, you reasoned to yourself as you exited your room and opened the door to Tor's without asking. To your surprise, you counted Tor, Mina, Mimi, Koi afloat on a bubble, and even Rylie all squeezed around a black Den Den Mushi.

"The Magician," Tor said neutrally, arms crossed. Darling Tor "The Owl" was still a bit aloof to you, but in a way you found kindred, so you couldn't hold much against her.

You glanced at your watch. "I need a drink first."

4

Drake hadn't been around so many disparate pirate groups since Sabaody Archipelago, and the Pirates Fest put those fateful few days before the Paramount War at Marineford to shame. It was a wonder how some of these crews made it to the New World at all, though most were of little consequence. And if he saw a white-haired "pirate" with two cigars in his mouth earlier, well... Drake trusted Smoker's discretion far more than he did Kizaru's, and that the vice admiral would involve him in whatever he and Captain Tashigi were doing as an absolute last resort.

In the absence of any Yonkou, most of Drake's focus was on his fellow Supernovas. Jewelry "Glutton" Bonney made good on her name, and Scratchmen Apoo managed to make a racket in a setting as raucous as this. Some Straw Hat or another was always in his periphery, whether the supposed Fifth Emperor himself or his wayward swordsman wandering between stalls. Capone Bege toted an infant on his hip, much to Drake's discomfort and empathy, and Trafalgar Law and his submarine were nowhere to be seen.

Drake was sitting at a blessedly empty picnic table, suspicious of how calm everything seemed when a bright and free laugh caught his attention. To his surprise, Basil Hawkins leaned against the bar two stalls down, his normally stony face utterly relaxed as he watched you curb your outburst into giggles, a mixed drink held to your lips. A woman? The Grudge Dolph sailed with only men, last Drake knew. Outside of alliances, inter-crew relations were rare, though this was certainly the venue for it.

Hawkins caught Drake's eye and murmured to you—close—and the sight was so odd simply because Drake had never considered open intimacy an option for pirates of their notoriety. You swiveled in your bar stool, and recognition dawned on your face even if Drake felt none of the same, though he wished he did, pretty as you were and such a contrast from Hawkins he thought you made a handsome couple. You were the one to wave Drake over as the Magician sipped what looked like a glass of pale ale.

"Red Flag," Hawkins said in greeting.

"Hawkins," Drake said. "And...?"

You put on an offended look, and Drake was about to apologize (why? you were only a pirate) when you smiled. "Last time I saw you, you were in white. While this one,"—you kicked Hawkins' boot, and he let you—"cut up your lieutenant commander."

Oh. And he recognized your accent as similar to Hawkins', from closer to the Calm Belt, far south of near-polar latitudes Drake sailed before SWORD. He had several more encounters with the Surgeon of Death back then than he did with Hawkins, but the incident you described was memorable.

"Don't let me interrupt your reunion," Drake said, and moved to leave.

"Wait," you said. "Settle a disagreement for us."

"Drake's hardly the person for this," Hawkins said. "We should find Faust."

"This morning, Hawkins drew the Seven of Cups—"

"Reversed."

"—which indicates deception. Reversed it supposedly means, what, everything is as it seems?"

"Yes."

"Are you stupid?"

Drake couldn't help it. He laughed, a short bark, but a laugh. "Sorry. Divination isn't my thing. I take it this is about..." He waved generally.

You nodded seriously. "When we got the invitation and the itinerary, I warned my crew something's wrong. Because besides the obvious, the event chart for the Treasure Race is horrible."

"All that means is Buena Festa didn't hire an astrologer," Hawkins said.

Of course Hawkins' girlfriend or whatever you were was just as odd and irrational as he was. "I may not know anything about tarot," Drake said, "but astrology..."

You huffed, and tugged on the leather thong around your neck to produce a sextant from—Drake looked at the floor to not ogle your breasts, but noted the three-dial log pose on your wrist. "It's just fun, rear admiral. There's far better uses for the sky."

"Well, we agree there." He glanced at Hawkins, who watched the two of you with something like amusement.

"I still draw horoscopes," you said, nonplussed by his skepticism. "Mostly for... persuasion."

"Is that what you call it?"

"To suggest the best course, yes."

Hawkins' predictions were more like pronouncements; you were an honest manipulator, if there was such a thing, and Drake found it unpiratical and charming.

"And what do the stars suggest about this Treasure Race?"

You crossed your legs toward him, but idly played with Hawkins' sleeve. "The conjunction of the Moon and Mars points to bloodshed, but they're in the 12^th house at noon today, which you can take to mean hidden enemies." Drake's mind flicked to Smoker and Tashigi and his own cover. "It also traditionally means incarceration. There's a few Impel Down escapees here, like the Star Clown. So how does any of that say Seven of Cups reversed?"

"I also got The Moon and the Two of Coins," Hawkins said. "You're being selective because you hate reversals."

"Because they're stupid, and if you keep ignoring obvious red flags," you said with a sly smile at Drake, "it's going to get you killed."

"It hasn't yet."

You whacked Hawkins in the arm. "So, rear admiral. Would you know anything? Or is the Marine really not aware?"

"I'm not a Marine." Drake wished he had a drink if only to have something to do with his hands, and to distract him from how you licked your lips, and how right you were. He had half a mind to make contact with Smoker or call one of his own subordinates—Koby and Helmeppo were nearby—but there were too many witnesses. "But I won't deny it's suspicious."

"And I think the obvious risks are likely worth the reward," Hawkins said.

"Oh, don't you start."

As far as Drake's crew knew, he harbored the same ambitions. "What are you here for, if you're so cautious?" You were such a strange mix of eccentric and sensible that he wanted to tell you to leave with whoever your crew was.

"We have a lot of friends to check on," you said.

"'Friends'," Hawkins repeated.

"And to make. Tell me, Drake. Did you steal your ship from the Marine?"

Drake's face heated. "Why do you ask?" Marines who lacked clearance to know his position said so with accusation and offense, but you sounded... impressed?

"I'd like to see it. After the race, assuming disaster doesn't strike."

Hawkins rolled his eyes.