The steady roll of waves against the white sand, accompanied by the warm breeze whispering through the palms, formed a rhythm so familiar that nearly everyone on the quiet shores of Okinawa had long since stopped noticing it. A young uma sat along the raised wooden platform of the old dojo, her legs dangling over the edge while a sea-salt popsicle rested between her lips. Her ears twitched with every distant call of a seabird, and her hazel eyes reflected the deep reds and molten golds of the sun sinking beyond the horizon, painting a bright path across the shimmering ocean.
The kominka perched upon the hill had been her home for as long as she could remember, shared with the grandparents who had raised her and filled her childhood with stories of places she had never seen. The house and adjoining dojo occupied a modest patch of land overlooking the shore, no larger than a tennis court, and both had been weathered by decades of salt, sun, and typhoon winds. The timber floors had faded to a pale, sandy brown, while the roof tiles, once dark enough to shine beneath the rain, had slowly turned an ashen gray beneath the elements.
There was little about the dojo that resembled what most people expected from a traditional Japanese training hall. In Okinawa, visitors might have imagined polished wooden walls, weapons displayed beneath calligraphy, and a stern master teaching karate to rows of disciplined students.
Instead, the Brazilian and Jamaican flags hung beside one another above the faded mats, surrounded by trophies, photographs, and keepsakes gathered across several lifetimes. Some pictures showed smiling students with their arms thrown around one another after competitions, while others captured younger versions of her grandfather standing beside masters from countries scattered across the world.
Carioca glanced over her shoulder at those fragments of her inheritance, feeling the familiar tug of curiosity whenever she looked at the faces staring back from the walls. Brazil and Jamaica belonged to her blood, and one of them had even been the place of her birth, yet she carried no memories of either nation beyond the stories passed down by her grandfather. The worn mats beneath the photographs bore their own history, their woven surfaces bleached by sunlight and softened by countless feet, with loose strands curling from the edges and small holes marking where years of practice had finally worn through.
Her ears angled toward the sound of approaching footsteps as an elderly man entered from the rear of the dojo. His skin was far darker than that of the Okinawans living nearby, though that was hardly surprising, considering he had never been Japanese to begin with. Despite the strength that still defined his body, from the hard lines of his arms to the solid breadth of his torso, age had begun to leave its mark upon him.
Wrinkles traced deeper paths across his face with every passing year, while the once-dark afro had thinned and faded until more white remained than gray. The short beard following the line of his jaw and circling his mouth had changed with it, lending him the weathered appearance of a man whose body still remembered its youth even as time steadily claimed the rest.
He brushed dust from his loose white shirt and trousers, then untied the braided cord around his waist, wearing it less as a practical belt than as a quiet reminder of who he had once been. When he leaned backward and rolled his shoulders, several joints cracked in protest, drawing a tired sigh from him before his gaze settled upon Carioca and softened into a smile.
"Carioca, mi darling, mi pray yuh never grow old di way mi do," he said as he made his way toward her, one hand rubbing the ache from the base of his spine. "Every mornin', mi bones wake before mi do, just fi complain 'bout every foolish ting mi ever put dem through. Mi teaching days gettin' shorter now, whether mi like it or not."
Carioca pulled the popsicle from her mouth and turned toward him, disappointment immediately gathering in her expression. "But Pupa, you said you were going to teach me."
The old man chuckled as he lowered himself beside her, taking his time before letting his legs hang over the edge of the platform. He reached across and rested a broad, weathered hand upon her head, gently ruffling the hair between her ears as they watched the sun settle closer to the sea.
"An' mi will teach yuh, little gyal, but every good ting come when di time right," he replied, his smile carrying the patience of someone who had repeated the same promise many times before. "Capoeira no just kicks, music, an' pretty movements fi impress people. It is we legacy, we blood, an' every step carry di story of somebody who come before yuh."
His gaze drifted toward the photographs lining the wall, settling upon one faded picture of a younger man standing beneath the Brazilian flag.
"Mi father, your great-grandpupa, leave Brazil when him still young an' restless, then travel all di way to Jamaica, where him meet di woman who become your great-grandmuma. Him build a life there, raise a family there, but him never stop teachin', because him know dat once yuh let di old ways die, a piece of yuhself die with dem."
Carioca followed his eyes toward the photograph, the melting popsicle forgotten in her hand as the final light of the evening stretched across the dojo floor.
"One day, when yuh ready," her grandfather continued, drawing her closer against his side, "mi will teach yuh every song, every step, an' every lesson dem teach me. Not because mi want yuh fi become like me, but because mi want yuh fi know exactly where yuh come from before yuh decide where yuh goin'."
Carioca blinked, then nodded with a small smile that gradually faded as she pushed the last of the sea-salt popsicle into her mouth and pulled away the bare wooden stick. For a few moments, she watched the sun sink lower over the water before turning back toward him.
"Pupa, do you miss Jamaica?"
A solemn stillness settled across her grandfather's face, softening the smile that had been there only moments before. "Every day," he answered quietly. "Not one pass when mi don't think 'bout it."
"Then why did you leave?" Carioca tilted her head, studying him with the simple confusion of a child who had not yet learned how easily people could love a place and still feel compelled to leave it. "If you miss it that much, why didn't you stay?"
Her grandfather looked at her for a long moment, his eyes searching her face as though he were deciding how much of the truth she was ready to carry. At last, he rested his clasped hands upon his lap and turned his gaze toward the ocean.
"Mi suppose yuh old enough fi hear some of it now," he said. "Sometimes life don't turn out di way yuh swear it will when yuh young. Young people proud, foolish, quick fi anger, an' mi was all three. Mi was proud enough fi believe mi always right, foolish enough fi think anger made mi strong, an' angry enough fi destroy every good thing standin' near me."
His fingers tightened slowly against one another as the years seemed to settle more heavily upon his shoulders. "Somebody answer mi pride with pride of dem own, an' instead of walkin' away, mi pushed harder. One moment was all it took, little gyal. One foolish moment, one choice mi could never take back, an' everything change after dat."
He lowered his eyes, the shame in his expression quiet but unmistakable. "Instead of facin' what mi had done, mi ran. Mi leave your papa behind. Mi leave your grandma, mi family, an' every life mi ever know, then mi come all di way here an' pretend startin' over was di same as makin' things right."
Carioca remained silent beside him. The popsicle stick resting forgotten between her fingers as she listened.
"For years, mi hear nothing from your papa, nothing from anybody mi leave behind," he continued. "Mi tell miself dem better off without me, though deep down, mi know dat was just another lie mi use fi make sleep come easier."
His gaze lifted toward the horizon, where the last edge of the sun hovered above the water. "Then one day, a letter come."
He paused, and when he looked at Carioca again, the sorrow in his eyes had softened beneath something warmer.
"Your mama an' papa had to…" He paused. "Go away, an' dat was when mi learn dem had a little daughter." His smile returned, faint but genuine. "Yuh."
Carioca's ears lowered slightly, though she did not look away.
"Mi did not wait," he said. "Mi took di first flight mi could find, went back to Jamaica after all those years, an' brought yuh home with me. Mi could not undo what mi had done to your father, an' mi could not give back di years mi threw away, but mi could make certain yuh never grew up believin' nobody wanted yuh."
He reached over and covered her small hand with his own. "So here yuh are," he murmured, looking out across the sea with her. "Di best thing Jamaica ever send back to me."
Carioca's smile softened as her tail flicked once behind her, and after a moment, she leaned into her grandfather's side. The old man drew her closer with one arm, holding her against him as they watched the last of the sunlight fade across the water.
"I love you, Pupa," she said quietly.
"Aye, mi love yuh too, mi little gyal," he replied, resting his cheek against the top of her head. "An' no matter what happen, yuh always have me. Always."
"Eh, what are you two doing sitting all the way over there?" a woman called from behind them, and Carioca and her grandfather turned to find an elderly Japanese woman standing at the entrance of the dojo in a purple dress and white apron, her dark hair swept neatly into a bun. "Dinner is ready already, so come inside before everything gets cold, ne? I am not heating it twice because you two want to sit and watch sunset all night."
She gave them both a stern look before turning on her heel and heading back toward the house, muttering beneath her breath about stubborn men and children who never listened.
Carioca's grandfather watched her disappear through the doorway, then leaned closer as though sharing a dangerous secret. "Do not tell yuh grandmuma mi say dis, but after all dese years, mi still cannot understand half di tings dat woman say."
He pointed toward himself, his expression completely serious despite the mischief gathering in his eyes. "An' she cannot understand me either. Somehow, we still married."
Carioca pressed both hands over her mouth, but the giggle escaped anyway, bright and helpless as her grandfather grinned beside her.
****
Barbarossa knocked Rekka's fist aside with a sharp sweep of her forearm, forcing the other uma to spring backward and catch herself with a shriek of rubber against asphalt. Before Rekka could close the distance again, the pirate queen turned away and drove herself back into a sprint, carrying the fight down the road with her challenger still close behind.
Her attention shifted toward the massive sixteen-wheeler rumbling ahead of them, its tires rising nearly as high as their shoulders while a long white freight container stretched across the steel trailer behind the cab. A grin spread across Barbarossa's face as she closed on the car following in the truck's wake, planted one foot against its trunk, and vaulted onto the roof with enough force to dent the metal beneath her cleats. The driver shouted from inside as the vehicle swerved, but Barbarossa had already raced across the roof and launched herself toward the container.
Her gloved hands caught the upper edge, and with a single swing of her body, she carried herself over the side in a twisting somersault before landing upright on the roof. Wind tore at her coat and snapped the scarf around her waist as she looked down at Rekka, who stared back with open disbelief from the road below.
Barbarossa raised two fingers and crooked them toward herself, inviting her to follow.
Rekka's grin faltered for only a moment before returning with sharper intent. She leapt onto the trailing car, drawing another terrified curse from the driver as the vehicle veered between lanes, then charged across the roof and threw herself toward the container. Her fingers hooked over the edge, but the height and speed left her legs swinging uselessly against the smooth steel. She grunted through clenched teeth as she fought for leverage, braced both elbows against the roof, and dragged herself upward until she could roll onto her back and catch her breath beneath the rushing night air.
When she pushed herself upright, Barbarossa was strolling along the length of the container as though the roaring truck beneath them were a ship crossing calm waters rather than a speeding rig cutting through the city.
Rekka scoffed as she rose, rolling one shoulder before settling into her stance. "What's the matter?" she asked, the smirk returning to her face. "You need a breather?"
Barbarossa rested one hand upon her hip and turned toward her, the wind tugging at the brim of her tricorn while amusement gleamed in her eyes. "Nay, lass. Ye said ye wanted a dance, so I thought I'd give us a proper stage," she replied, sweeping one arm toward the narrow roof beneath their feet and the city rushing past on either side. "Wouldn't do to disappoint ye, or all those lovely fools watchin' from shore."
The grin remained for another heartbeat before slowly fading, leaving something colder in its place as she glanced down at the white steel beneath her boots.
"Besides," Barbarossa continued, raising her eyes to Rekka again, "I reckon this rig'll look real pretty once I paint it with the color of yer insides."
A shadow passed across Rekka's face, draining the last trace of amusement from it until only something cold and vicious remained. She stepped forward with her teeth bared, rolling her shoulders before cracking her knuckles one by one as the wind tore across the roof of the speeding truck.
"Oh, I'm going to enjoy ripping that stupid hat of yours into tiny pieces," she said, drawing one arm back as her body twisted with the motion. "Then I'm going to shove every last scrap down your throat right after I knock those pearly whites out of your mouth."
Rekka drove the punch forward, but Barbarossa leaned back just enough for the knuckles to pass within an inch of her lips, the same infuriating smirk never leaving her face. Rekka followed with another strike, then another, each one thrown harder and faster than the last, yet the pirate queen continued to slip beyond them with effortless precision. It was not the hurried weaving of someone struggling to avoid being hit, but a smooth, measured rhythm that carried her around each attack as though Rekka were simply following steps Barbarossa had already chosen for her.
When Rekka committed to one more punch, Barbarossa bent backward, twisted through her hips, and sent her right leg sweeping upward in a graceful arc. Rekka caught the movement too late and raised an arm across her body just as Barbarossa's ankle slammed into her guard. The impact drove her sideways, nearly throwing her from the container as she stumbled across the shaking roof and fought to keep her balance against the truck's motion.
She gritted her teeth and clutched her shoulder, but Barbarossa was already moving again.
The pirate queen turned through the follow-through, folded her body downward, and planted both hands against the steel before swinging her legs into a spinning handstand. Her coat and sash flared around her in the wind, and for the first time, Rekka saw the braided cord hidden among the crimson fabric at Barbarossa's waist, woven in bright strands of yellow, green, and blue.
Recognition flickered across Rekka's eyes.
Barbarossa completed the rotation and landed upon one knee, the sole of one boot grinding lightly against the white steel as she lifted her head beneath the shadow of her tricorn. Her smile sharpened, no longer playful so much as certain.
"Like I told ye, lass, ye've sailed straight into a storm fiercer than anything ye can imagine," she said, rising slowly while the truck thundered beneath them. "An' now ye've found yerself trapped right in the eye of it."
****
To the uma known as Jamrock Carioca, those days belonged to another lifetime, preserved in memory beneath the warmth of an Okinawan sun that seemed brighter whenever her grandparents were still alive. The years that followed were filled with laughter, long afternoons by the sea, and evenings inside the old kominka where stories passed as easily as the breeze through the open doors. Her grandfather kept his promise and taught her capoeira, guiding her through every movement until the art settled into her bones as naturally as running.
She learned quickly, rising through the ranks with a grace and instinct that surprised even him, and when her grandmother passed and age finally left her grandfather unable to teach, Carioca stepped into his place without hesitation. Day by day, she introduced a new generation to the same songs, rhythms, and movements that had shaped her childhood, preserving her family's legacy one student at a time.
Love alone, however, could not keep the roof from leaking or the floorboards from rotting. As money grew tight and the old house began to show every year of its age, Carioca took a job as an attendant at the local aquarium, working long hours to keep the kominka standing and the dojo open. She balanced cleaning tanks, guiding visitors, and entertaining school groups with evening lessons, often returning home exhausted but satisfied that the doors were still open and the mats still in place.
Pirates had fascinated her since childhood, fed by the stories her grandfather told before bed. Piracy belonged to the history of the Caribbean, but to him it had always been more than old battles and buried gold. It was a part of the region's folklore, humor, music, and pride. Carioca absorbed every tale, then carried them into the games she played with the local children, turning beaches into lost islands and driftwood into cutlasses whenever she found the chance.
Her bedroom walls were covered in posters from her favorite films, especially Pirates of the Caribbean, and she had fallen so completely in love with Captain Hector Barbossa that she began copying his voice, his posture, and the rolling swagger of his walk until the character felt almost like a second skin.
So, when the aquarium introduced a live show to attract more tourists and settled on a pirate theme, Carioca recognized the opportunity immediately. She auditioned for the role of the villainous captain and earned the part, stepping onto the stage in a weathered coat, tricorn hat, and enough confidence to command the entire room. She adored every part of it, from the costume and theatrics to the exaggerated speech and larger-than-life personality she had practiced since childhood.
Every performance received everything she had, and before long, the pirate meant to serve as the villain had become the character audiences remembered most. Children waited after the show for photographs, visitors returned just to watch her again, and management increased the schedule from one performance a day to as many as three during the busiest seasons.
For a while, Carioca believed she had found the life she wanted. The pay was enough to keep the house standing, she could continue teaching the art her grandfather had entrusted to her, and each day she was allowed to become the pirate captain she had spent years pretending to be.
Then the dream ended with a phone call.
Carioca still remembered the frantic journey to the hospital, the sterile room, and the sharp smell of disinfectant and alcohol burning inside her nostrils. Her grandfather lay beneath thin white sheets, smaller than she had ever seen him, while the doctor explained that he had been gravely ill for years and had chosen to keep it hidden from her.
She remembered the tears, the scream that tore from her throat, and the helplessness that drove her to her knees beside the bed, but her grandfather met it all without fear or anger. There was sadness in him, though none of it was for himself. He had spent much of his life believing he did not deserve the second chance Okinawa had given him, yet when the end came, he told her that he would not have traded a single year of it for anything in the world.
He died one week later.
His death, however, was only the beginning of what Carioca would lose.
Among the documents left behind were debts he had never told her about, obligations buried beneath years of missed payments and desperate extensions. Carioca pleaded with the bank, attended meeting after meeting, and asked for more time, but the executives had already made their decision. The property was foreclosed, and the home where she had lived her entire life was taken from her. The kominka, the dojo, and everything her grandparents had built were torn down until nothing remained except broken stone, splintered wood, and the pale scar of empty land overlooking the shore.
Only later did Carioca learn the truth. A wealthy developer had spent years pressuring her grandfather to sell, and when he refused, the man used his influence within the banks to make certain the property would eventually fall into his hands. The debts had not merely swallowed her home. They had been used as a weapon to take it.
She remembered standing before the ruins in the rain, kneeling in the mud where the dojo had once stood and gathering handfuls of wet earth against her chest. The downpour washed the tears from her face, but it could not touch the fury taking shape beneath them. In that moment, Carioca understood that if the world intended to rob her of everything she loved, then she would steal it back.
One morning, Carioca vanished without warning, leaving behind nothing more than a letter of resignation upon the aquarium manager's desk and an empty wardrobe where her costume had once hung. By the time anyone realized the tricorn hat, red bandana, and weathered captain's coat were gone with her, the woman they had known had already disappeared beyond the horizon. Somewhere between the white sands of Okinawa and the endless blue of the sea, Jamrock Carioca sank into the depths of Davy Jones' locker, and from those dark waters rose the pirate queen the world would one day fear and remember as Captain Barbarossa.
It began with small acts of revenge, petty thefts aimed at the executives of the very bank that had taken her home, but each success drew her further from the life she had abandoned. Stolen wallets became emptied accounts, break-ins became carefully planned heists, and before long, thousands had grown into hundreds of thousands, then millions.
Homes were raided, cars hijacked, property seized through coercion, ransom, and blackmail, while the women who gathered around her embraced the pirate pageantry as fiercely as they embraced the cause behind it. They painted themselves in crimson, followed Barbarossa beneath her banner, and became known throughout Okinawa as the Crimson Tides.
Her name soon carried through the islands like a warning. Captain Barbarossa became a figure of rumor and spectacle, a thief who robbed businessmen, bankers, and developers while leaving police to chase shadows through the ports and coastal roads. Yet she did not hoard everything she took. Much of the money found its way into the hands of families drowning beneath debt, shopkeepers facing closure, and people threatened by the same powerful interests that had destroyed her home.
Together with the Crimson Tides, she waged a private war against the developer who had seized the surrounding land, sabotaging equipment, bleeding his finances through theft and extortion, and terrorizing his associates until the project became too costly to continue.
For a time, the life suited her perfectly. She had reclaimed the theater she once loved, turned the villain into the heroine of her own story, and built herself into the kind of legend her grandfather might once have told beside the sea. Eventually, however, even piracy began to lose its shine, and Barbarossa found herself searching for a new horizon.
She found it by accident.
One evening, while moving along a coastal road, she stumbled upon an illegal race organized beneath the banner of the MRA. At first, she had intended only to watch, but then a raven-haired uma dressed in black came tearing down the road beside the beach with police cruisers screaming after her, her silhouette cutting through the moonlight as though the night itself had taken form and learned to run. The sight awakened something inside Barbarossa, a spark buried deep within every uma, and as she watched the racer disappear beyond the curve with sirens fading behind her, the thrill struck harder than any heist or chase she had ever known.
Just like that, Captain Barbarossa turned her sails toward distant shores, leaving Okinawa behind in search of faster roads, greater prizes, and a race worthy of her name.
****
Dahlia's cleats screamed against the asphalt as she threw herself into another controlled drift, leaving dark streaks and curling smoke across the road before tearing deeper into the narrow residential district with Yamino still bearing down upon her. Concrete walls and layered brickwork rose on either side of the street, making each home resemble a miniature fortress, with compact cars parked in open driveways and iron gates drawn across their entrances.
The pounding of their footsteps rolled through the neighborhood loudly enough to shake the quiet from every house they passed, and one by one, lights flickered on behind curtained windows as blinds were pulled aside and the shadowed figures of residents, wrenched from sleep by the commotion, crowded together to find out what had shattered the peace of the night.
Every breath tore painfully through Dahlia's lungs, while the hammering of her heart filled her ears and made the street pulse beneath her feet. When she glanced over her shoulder, Yamino had already shortened the distance between them again, her stride remaining heavy, steady, and frighteningly controlled, as though the larger uma had never doubted where the chase would end. Dahlia had seen this strategy before, both in the race against Queen and in every recording she had studied afterward.
Yamino always began by breaking apart the weaker runners, terrifying the rest into wasting their strength and forcing them to burn through their stamina long before the final stretch, and once fear had hollowed them out, she closed in and dismantled them one by one. Among Japan's rookies, she held the record for causing the most injuries, and no other runner had driven more umas into retirement through permanent, life-changing damage.
Most racers avoided any event bearing Yamino's name because finishing lower on the board was still preferable to spending the rest of their lives learning how to walk again. Dahlia had once wondered why someone so feared so often crossed the finish line in second or third place, and she had assumed that Yamino's strategy left her too slow or exhausted to seize victory at the end. Now, with that relentless presence closing behind her, Dahlia finally understood that Yamino had never entered these races for the finish line in the first place.
She ran for the violence, the fear, and the moment when flesh met fist and another body crumpled beneath her strength. Placement and prize money only mattered if they gave her another excuse to hurt someone, and if victory happened to follow the carnage, then it was merely a bonus. Dahlia was no longer another competitor standing between Yamino and the finish. She had become the next victim Yamino intended to leave broken on the road.
"Night, you can't keep circling through these streets," Light warned through the comms, her words tightening as she watched the route fold back upon itself. "That's exactly what she wants. She's waiting for you to tire yourself out, and the second you slow down, she's going to tear you apart."
"Like I told you before, I'm open to suggestions!" Dahlia snapped as she dropped low and skidded through a sharp right turn, smoke bursting beneath her cleats before she caught the road again and drove herself forward. "Unless you've suddenly got one, I'm doing the best I can!"
The frantic tapping of keys continued over the connection before Light's breathing changed. "Wait, something's wrong. She's gone."
Dahlia's eyes widened as she looked over her shoulder, but the street behind her was empty, with no sign of Yamino between the walls and parked cars.
"Night, look out!"
Light's warning reached her a fraction too late, because the stone wall beside Dahlia exploded outward in a storm of concrete, brick, and dust. She turned just as Yamino burst through the opening with both arms crossed in front of her face, fragments of masonry scattering from her shoulders as she lunged from the wreckage. Dahlia barely had enough time to inhale before Yamino wrapped both arms around her ribs and locked them tight, lifting her cleanly from the road as the crushing grip forced the air from her lungs.
Yamino never slowed. With Dahlia trapped against her chest, she drove across the street and smashed through the wall on the opposite side, reducing the red brickwork to loose stone and rubble beneath the force of their bodies. Dust rolled through the courtyard beyond as broken masonry scattered across the ground, while the whine of drone propellers cut through the air overhead and followed them into the wreckage.
The moment Dahlia's back struck the wall, every trace of air was ripped from her lungs, and before her body could even register the pain, Yamino drove forward again with a ragged cry tearing from her throat. Dust clung to her jumpsuit and tangled through her hair as she thundered across the yard of the neighboring house, her cleats ripping deep tracks through the grass while Dahlia remained crushed against her chest, arms pinned so tightly to her sides that she could barely struggle. When they reached the next wall, Yamino lowered her shoulder and smashed Dahlia straight through it, reducing stone and mortar to a violent burst of rubble and choking dust as agony exploded across Dahlia's back and flashed white behind her eyes.
She tried to wrench herself free, but Yamino's grip only tightened, crushing her ribs and holding her helpless as they barreled through the next yard. Another wall rushed toward them, and Dahlia managed only a strangled cry before Yamino drove her into it with enough force to tear the structure apart around them, sending more broken masonry scattering across the ground while the impact rattled through every bone in her body.
"You're still awake?" Yamino asked, glancing down at her with a broad smirk hidden beneath the mask. "Looks like I underestimated you. You're tougher than you look."
Her eyes lifted toward the wall waiting at the far end of the next yard, and the cruel satisfaction in them deepened as she gathered more speed.
"But you won't be for much longer," Yamino continued, tightening her hold as Dahlia sagged against her. "This time, it's lights out."
Dahlia's vision had already begun to blur at the edges, the world around her dissolving into streaks of color and drifting dust as every sound faded beneath the pounding inside her skull. Even Light's voice over the comms had become little more than a distant garble, broken and indistinct beneath the ringing in her ears, yet somewhere beneath the pain and the darkness threatening to swallow her, an old memory began to rise from the deepest corner of her mind.
****
The air-conditioning hummed overhead in a steady mechanical drone, and although running it during the chill of autumn might have seemed ridiculous anywhere else, the enclosed boxing gym had become a sauna beneath the heat rolling from exhausted bodies and the sweat darkening the mats. Dahlia was quietly grateful that Coach Kamogawa possessed enough sense to keep the air moving, because without it, the entire place would have smelled like a jockstrap forgotten inside a sealed locker for a week.
She sat on a wooden bench near the ring, dabbing the sweat from her neck with a white towel while her breathing slowly settled after their fifth round of drills, each session filled with punches, blocks, slips, and weaves until the movements had begun to settle into her body without thought.
Over the past several weeks, she had improved faster than she expected, though her hands still carried the evidence of how rough the beginning had been. Her ears twitched as she looked down at the bandages wrapped around her knuckles, flexing her fingers and feeling the faint tremor that followed every impact. During the first few sessions, her hands had bruised so badly that gripping a doorknob became an ordeal, and there had been mornings when even fastening her clothes sent pain shooting through her fingers. Now, the soreness had become familiar enough to ignore, another discomfort her body had learned to accept as part of the work.
The tearing sound of Velcro cut across the gym as Logan removed the striking pads and tossed them onto the bench beside him. Dahlia's eyes followed the movement and settled upon the calluses covering his knuckles, then the joints of his fingers, which had thickened and hardened beneath years of punishment. She found herself wondering how long he had been throwing punches, and whether the things receiving them had always been leather bags and wooden boards, or whether flesh and bone had taken their share.
She had never seriously asked where Logan learned to fight the way he did, though the question had followed her since the first lesson. He understood every weak point in the human body, every angle that could ruin a shoulder, lock an elbow, or fold a man twice his size with one properly placed blow. Even now, Dahlia suspected the truth was something she would rather not know, but curiosity continued needling at the back of her mind no matter how often she tried to bury it.
"You all right, kid?" Logan asked as he ran one hand through his damp hair and leaned backward until his spine cracked. "You've got that look again, like there's somethin' rattlin' around in your head and makin' a mess."
"No!" Dahlia blurted, far too quickly to sound convincing, and when Logan raised an eyebrow, she lowered her gaze toward her wrapped hands. "I'm just thinking about everything you've been teaching me. I threw down with Lady during our race, so I know fights can happen out there, but I grew up watching the Twinkle Series, and I still have trouble imagining girls throwing punches in the middle of a proper race."
A laugh escaped her as the image formed in her mind. "Every time I picture Scarlet decking the girl running beside her, I start laughing my ass off."
Logan snorted as he folded his arms. "Rules are a little different back in the States. Umas can roughhouse as long as it doesn't turn into a full-on brawl, so you'll see bumpin', edgin', maybe even a shove when nobody important is lookin'."
He paused. "Then you've got racers who build their whole strategy around fightin' dirty, trainin' themselves to keep every nasty little move away from the cameras and judges. They look clean from the stands, but once they're buried inside the pack, they're trippin' opponents, steppin' on heels, and hurtin' girls who are already on the ground."
He paused, his gaze shifting toward the empty ring as though an old race had begun replaying inside it. "That's how Perdition used to run."
"Perdition?" Dahlia asked, leaning forward slightly. "Was she another one of the Fifteen?"
"Yeah, though Perdi's got what you might call a complicated past, and her present ain't much easier." Logan rubbed the back of his head, already looking as though he regretted bringing her up. "She's the granddaughter of Don Vito Corleone."
Dahlia tilted her head, and Logan stared at her for several seconds before pinching the bridge of his nose.
"All right, I'm just gonna come out and say it. The Corleones are one of the most powerful crime families in the States. Old Country, Italian Mafia, the whole damned thing, exactly like the stuff you see on television, except the real version doesn't come with commercial breaks."
"Wait." Dahlia's eyes widened. "One of the Godly Fifteen… was in the mafia?"
"Like I said, it's complicated." Logan gestured with one hand as he spoke. "Perdition grew up inside the family business, so she knew the underworld better than most cops ever would, but her grandfather sent her away to Strider when things got messy at home. I never asked for details, mostly because I valued sleepin' without wonderin' whether somebody was standin' outside my window."
A faint laugh escaped Dahlia. "I can imagine."
Logan gave her a level stare. "It wasn't funny, kid. I was seventeen years old, and every night I went to bed wonderin' whether I'd wake up at the bottom of a river with concrete around my ankles or buried in the middle of some field next to Jimmy Hoffa."
"Jimmy who?" Dahlia asked, tilting her head as her ears twitched.
"Never mind," Logan replied, waving the question aside before it could drag them somewhere else. "Forget all the Mafia shit for a second. Now, Perdi had the skill and the speed, but she didn't have the stamina to keep up with the best runners in the sport, and she sure as hell didn't have the tricks Lucky used to make up the difference."
His expression flattened as he leaned closer. "What she did have was a lifetime of learnin' how to hurt people without leavin' a mark anybody could prove."
The horror gathering across Dahlia's face told him she understood perfectly.
"Hold on," she said, staring at him. "You helped her cheat?"
"No," Logan replied at once, recoiling as though she had accused him of murder. "What the hell do you take me for?"
Dahlia's deadpan stare did not move.
"Cheatin' is a strong word," he continued, swaying slightly as he searched for a version of the truth that sounded better. "We bent the rules now and then, maybe leaned on them until they creaked a little, but that ain't the same thing."
"You cheated."
"Call it whatever you want, kid," Logan replied with a dismissive scoff. "It's only cheatin' if somebody catches you." Logan cleared his throat, crossing his arms as he gathered the thread of the story again. "Anyway, Perdi got real good at roughhousin', and I'm not talkin' about a few bumps or cheap shoves when the judges looked away. She threw elbows, kicks, headbutts, whatever she could get away with, and the damned thing was, she usually got away with all of it."
He let out a slow breath and shook his head, caught somewhere between pride and regret. "I probably shouldn't be braggin' about this, but she was the kind of girl who did her homework. She studied every opponent before a race and memorized the whole course until she knew it better than the officials did. Terrain, weather, wind speed, blind corners, camera angles, where the judges stood, when they'd be lookin' somewhere else, all of it. By the time she stepped onto the track, she already knew exactly where she could hurt somebody and how long she had before anyone noticed."
Logan's expression hardened as his gaze drifted toward the ring. "I've lost count of how many umas she put outta commission, or how many she scared badly enough that they never raced again. She made a name for herself, sure, and by the end of her career, people called her a legend, but that kind of reputation always comes with a hell of a lot of infamy attached."
Dahlia lowered the towel from her neck, her brows drawing together as she listened. "How did she never get caught? I know she was good, but nobody could keep that up forever without getting disqualified."
"That's the thing, kid. She did," Logan replied, looking back at her. "Perdi was a genius when it came to racin' dirty. She knew where to hit, how hard to hit, and how to make it look like an accident. No proof meant no penalty, and no penalty meant everyone could whisper whatever they wanted while she kept runnin'."
He rubbed a thumb slowly across one of the old calluses on his knuckles. "I'll be the first to admit it churned me up inside for a while, knowin' what I'd helped her become, but I also knew the kind of umas she was facin'. They were mean as hell, and their trainers were worse, so I told myself I was just makin' sure she survived long enough to beat them."
"Had another girl, name's De La Muerte." His words grew quieter. "I recruited her after Perdi, and unlike most of the Fifteen, she was smaller, and nowhere near as hardened when she first joined us. Perdi took a likin' to her almost immediately, treated her like a kid sister, watched over her, scared off anyone who got too close, all that."
Logan paused, his expression dimming as he considered how much of the story he ought to tell her. "Fact is, Muerte had a rough past of her own, with most of her family buried neck-deep in the local Hispanic gangs. We're talkin' MS-13, Sureños, Norteños, and every other kind of bastard you'd never want showin' up at your door."
He noticed the confusion deepening across Dahlia's face and rolled his eyes. "Honestly, why do I even bother? They were bad people, kid, the kind that make ordinary criminals look respectable." He gestured vaguely with one hand before continuing. "They didn't like Muerte much either, especially her cousins. She was born with albinism, and those superstitious jackasses decided that made her some kinda bad omen. Whenever somethin' went wrong in their miserable lives, they blamed her for it, and let's just say they weren't exactly keepin' their hands to themselves."
Logan released a sharp breath, his jaw tightening around whatever memories he had inherited from the story. "There ain't any official records backin' this up, so most of what I know is speculation, and Perdi was bein' hella coy whenever anybody asked. Still, the way I heard it, Muerte's parents sent her to Strider because they knew the rest of the family might eventually come after her just for shits and giggles."
He shook his head with a humorless scoff. "Fat lot of good that did, because they eventually tracked her down anyway, and when Perdi caught wind of it..."
Dahlia's ears twitched as she waited for him to finish.
"The story hit the news the next mornin'," Logan continued. "An entire gang had been wiped out execution-style, with bodies scattered across one of their safe houses like somebody had decided to send a message in blood. I don't know exactly what happened, and frankly, I'm not sure I wanna know, but the moment Muerte's family realized she was under the protection of the Corleones, they got the hell outta Dodge and never came back."
A faint chuckle escaped him as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Funny part is, Muerte still doesn't know any of that happened, but that's a story for another time."
Dahlia then saw something dark settle behind his eyes before he continued.
"Now, one day, Muerte got hurt during a race. Fracture put her out for six months, and Perdi knew exactly who'd done it." Logan gave a short laugh, though there was no humor in it. "She took it real personal. Came stormin' into my office and demanded I enter her in the next race that girl ran, and no matter what I said, she wasn't leavin' until she got what she wanted."
Dahlia bit her lower lip. "What happened?"
Logan tapped one finger against his arm and looked toward her with a tired expression. "Look up an uma named Ruffian sometime. I'm not goin' into the details, but she never raced again."
Silence settled between them, though Logan did not let it linger for long.
"Make no mistake, I don't hate any of my girls, and I don't hold what they are against them," he said. "I'm proud of what they achieved, even when it came with a whole shitload of baggage. Perdi's a cold, heartless, merciless bitch in every possible sense, but she's also loyal, protective, and capable of carin' more deeply than most people would ever guess."
A faint, uneasy smile touched his face. "She's a lot like Bee, except Bee'll leave you with a broken nose and a lesson you won't forget. Perdi'll burn your whole damned life to the ground, salt the ashes, and make sure you understand exactly why she did it."
Logan ran his fingers through his hair and let out a slow breath, his gaze drifting toward the empty ring. "No surprise that once she left the track behind, she went back to the one place she'd always belonged," he said. "When her grandfather died, she took his seat at the head of the Corleones, and after that, well, the rest is history."
He raised one finger before Dahlia could ask anything else, drawing her attention back to him as his expression hardened. "Now, you're probably wonderin' why I've spent all this time talkin' about Perdi, and it's because I need you to understand that sometimes you've gotta do what you've gotta do," he said. "The way she raced wasn't some persona she put on for the cameras. It was the way she'd been raised, the way she survived, and the only rule she ever trusted was that you were either all in or you were in the ground."
Dahlia remained still as he leaned forward, his eyes holding hers.
"Rekka, Yamino, Barbarossa, none of them are gonna hear your tragic little story and suddenly start pullin' punches," Logan continued. "They won't care what you've lost, who's waitin' for you, or how badly you want to make it home. Perdi got where she did because she was willin' to do whatever it took, and every damned racer in the MRA is gonna come at you with that same attitude once the blood starts spillin'."
He nodded his head. "Much as I'd like to keep you outta scraps, I know better than to pretend you won't get dragged into one, and if that happens, you remember one thing… prison rules."
Dahlia tilted her head. "Prison rules?"
"Anything goes," Logan replied. "Bite, claw, gouge, tear, and hit whatever you can reach. Eyes, ears, cheeks, nose, throat, fingers, none of it's off-limits once somebody's tryin' to put you in the ground. Whatever sympathy or hesitation you brought with you, lock it in a trunk, throw away the key, and sink the whole damned thing into the Mariana Trench, because they aren't gonna give a shit where you end up when it's over, and you sure as hell shouldn't waste time worryin' about them."
Dahlia looked down at her wrapped hands, flexing her fingers slowly before raising her eyes to him again. "So, you're telling me I need to become the kind of racer Perdition was?"
Logan barked out a laugh. "Kid, you ain't half the girl Perdi was, and you never will be."
Dahlia's face tightened into a scowl, but Logan's expression softened before she could answer.
"And there ain't nothin' wrong with that," he said. "You still know the difference between a race and a grudge. Whatever happens out there stays out there, and when it's over, you know how to walk away. Perdi never learned that. Every loss followed her home, every insult became a debt, and every opponent became somebody she needed to punish long after the race was done."
He glanced toward the ring again, then back to Dahlia. "You're gonna meet umas faster than you, stronger than you, and mean enough to make both count. I've taught you everything I know about stayin' one step ahead, finding an opening, and gettin' the upper hand when you've got no business havin' it, but sooner or later, the choice is yours."
A faint smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.
"Just remember that, like Perdi, I won't hold anythin' against you for doin' what you had to do. You've got helluvalotta of people waitin' for you back here, so when the time comes, you put yourself first and make damned sure you're the one who comes home."
Dahlia held his gaze for a moment before her expression softened, and she gave him a quiet nod. "Got it, Trainer."
Logan raised another finger. "One more thing. Like I said, bite, claw, gouge, hit, and use whatever the hell you can get your hands on, whether it's part of you, part of them, or somethin' lyin' in the road. If all of that fails, though, there's still one thing that hits harder than almost anything else."
Dahlia lifted an eyebrow. "What's that?"
Logan leaned closer, a knowing smirk spreading across his face.
"Gravity."
****
A raw cry tore from Dahlia's throat as she slammed her forehead into Yamino's face, but the larger uma did little more than flinch before tightening her hold and continuing to drive them toward the wall. Dahlia struck her again, then once more, each impact splitting the skin across her own brow while blood streamed from Yamino's nostrils beneath the mask, yet none of it seemed to slow her. When Dahlia twisted enough to glance over her shoulder, the approaching wall had already swallowed most of her vision.
"I told you, you hit like a pair of bunny slippers!" Yamino snarled, gathering more speed as her grip crushed tighter around Dahlia's ribs. "You ain't gonna hurt me. You can't do—!"
Dahlia opened her mouth and snapped forward, sinking her teeth into Yamino's right ear hard enough to tear the words from her throat. The larger uma screamed and jerked violently beneath the sudden pain, but Dahlia only bit down harder, the metallic taste of blood spreading across her tongue as Yamino thrashed and tried to wrench her head away.
"What the f—!" Yamino howled, breaking beneath another cry when Dahlia's teeth dug deeper. "You crazy bitch, let go!"
The pain weakened Yamino's grip just enough for Dahlia to wrench her right arm free. She released the torn ear with a growl, caught Yamino across the face, and drove her thumb into the larger uma's left eye. Another scream ripped from Yamino's throat as both eyelids clamped shut and her hold finally faltered completely, though the momentum continued carrying them toward the wall.
Dahlia pulled her hand away at the final moment, seized the back of Yamino's head, and used the full force of their charge to drive her face-first into the stone.
The wall exploded around them.
Concrete, brick, and dust burst outward as both umas tore through the structure and crashed into something large and metallic on the other side. Steel folded beneath the impact, glass shattered across the road, and their bodies were thrown into the asphalt amid a storm of rubble and choking gray dust.
Dahlia coughed as the haze rolled beneath the amber streetlights, her vision swaying and slipping in and out of focus while she tried to understand what they had hit. When the blur began to settle, she turned her head and saw the mangled side of a police cruiser, its windows blown out and its frame crushed inward where their bodies had struck it.
Yamino was already forcing herself upright. She slapped one hand against the hood to steady herself, groaning as blood ran from beneath her mask and down the side of her jaw. Her gaze settled upon the broken side mirror, and with a snarl, she seized it by the frame and tore it from the cruiser, the steel shrieking as the wires snapped beneath her grip.
Holding the mirror in front of her face, Yamino lifted her right ear with careful fingers and flinched when pain flashed through it. The flesh had been folded forward, and deep crescents from Dahlia's teeth were carved into it, slick with blood. Her left eye was bloodshot with dark veins of red spiderwebbing across her cornea.
For several seconds, she simply stared. Then her expression darkened. Yamino lowered the mirror and looked toward Dahlia, who was still sprawled among the debris. Dahlia rolled onto her back and forced herself upright, locking eyes with Yamino as she sat amid the broken stone.
"Oh, you're so dead," Yamino said, shaking with fury. "Worse than dead. Hell, I'm gonna rip you apart limb from limb, and when I'm finished, there won't be enough left of you to—"
"Freeze!" a voice shouted from behind her.
Dahlia looked past Yamino as the larger uma stared over her shoulder toward two police officers standing behind her. The first was a young man barely reaching Yamino's shoulder, dressed in a navy vest over a pale-blue uniform shirt with a patrol cap pulled low across his brow, while the small revolver clutched between his hands trembled badly enough to make the barrel wander.
Dahlia had seen enough officers throughout the night to recognize an ordinary beat cop, and judging by the panic carved across his face and the stiffness in his stance, he had not been wearing the badge for long. A young woman stood beside him with her weapon aimed more steadily at Yamino's chest, but the fear in her eyes was just as clear, and the sight of them sent something cold crawling down Dahlia's spine.
They had not been waiting in ambush, nor had they joined the rogue officers hunting the racers through Shibuya. The cruiser crushed against the wall had been parked there while they made their rounds, only to be destroyed when Dahlia and Yamino came tearing through the neighborhood. These two had simply been in the wrong place at the worst possible moment, and they had no idea what they were standing in front of.
"P-put your hands up!" the male officer ordered, fighting to keep his voice from breaking as the revolver shook in his grip. "You're under arrest!"
"Do it now!" his partner shouted, tightening both hands around her pistol.
Yamino's pupils contracted, and Dahlia felt her stomach turn before the larger uma had even moved.
She spun with terrifying speed, seized the man's gun arm, and twisted it across itself until the wrist snapped with a sickening crack. The officer screamed as broken bone tore through the skin and blood ran down his sleeve, but Yamino had already dragged him against her body as the woman fired. The gunshot split the night, and the round struck her partner in the back, spraying blood across Yamino's chest as his cry collapsed into a strangled gasp.
The female officer froze for half a heartbeat, horror washing across her face when she realized what she had done, and Yamino used that hesitation without mercy. She swung the torn side mirror into the wounded man's head, the jagged metal striking with enough force to send blood across the wall, then released his limp body and hurled the mirror at the woman before she could fire again.
It struck the front of her skull with a wet, crushing impact.
Her head snapped violently backwards as blood scattered across the road, and she fell onto her back without so much as raising her hands to break the fall, her weapon slipping from her fingers as her body struck the asphalt and went still.
Yamino stared at the two officers for a moment, breathing heavily. "God, I can't stand pigs! Always there when you don't want 'em, worthless when you need 'em!" She then drew in a long breath, rolled the tension from her shoulders, and turned back toward Dahlia as though the interruption had been nothing more than an inconvenience.
"Now," Yamino said, the fury returning to her eyes as she stepped over the fallen officer, "where were we?"
Dahlia scraped her boots against the road as she pushed herself backward, her eyes wide and her breathing quick while Yamino stepped away from the bodies of the two officers and began closing the distance between them. Her gaze darted toward the fallen pair for a moment before snapping back to the hulking uma advancing through the wreckage, and just as panic threatened to lock her in place, something slipped from the mangled rear compartment of the cruiser and struck the asphalt beside her with a heavy clatter.
The object was flat, round, and carbon-black, resembling an oversized hockey puck with a yellow plastic pin fixed to one side like the safety catch on a fire extinguisher. Several more remained inside a fractured storage case hanging from the torn-open back door, though it was the word printed in white across the top that seized Dahlia's attention and tightened every muscle in her face.
Umajacker.
Her eyes snapped back toward Yamino, and Logan's voice returned from the depths of her memory with sudden clarity.
If everything else fails, there is still one thing that hits harder than almost anything.
Dahlia slowly raised her gaze toward the skyline, searching beyond the rooftops until she found the long silhouette of a construction crane rising in the distance. She looked from the crane to the Umajacker, then back toward Yamino, and the pieces locked together so quickly that the fear inside her hardened into purpose.
Without wasting another second, Dahlia snatched one of the devices from the road, forced herself onto her feet, and sprinted in the opposite direction.
"You ain't gettin' away that easy!" Yamino snarled as she launched after her, the force of her first stride scattering dust and broken glass behind her.
Dahlia shoved the Umajacker into the back pocket of her jacket and drove herself down the street, the amber glow of the lamps sliding across the leather while Yamino's pounding footsteps followed close behind. "Pol, are you there?" she called through the comms, forcing the words between ragged breaths.
"Night!" Light answered immediately. "Are you all right? The drones lost you in the dust, and I couldn't see anything after you went through that wall."
"I'm fine," Dahlia replied, throwing herself into a hard-right turn as her cleats shrieked across the asphalt and smoke curled beneath her boots. She came out of the drift with Yamino still locked onto her trail, then lifted her eyes toward the crane looming above the neighborhood. "Pull up every feed you have and tell me whether you can see a construction crane nearby."
"Yeah, I can see it," Light said, though uncertainty immediately crept into her tone. "But what about it?"
"I need you to chart a route straight toward it," Dahlia replied as she raced toward the junction ahead.
"Wait, to the crane?" Light asked, the clicking of her keyboard slowing. "Night, that leads into a construction site, there's nothing there, and there probably isn't going to be much room to—"
"Just do it!" Dahlia snapped, glancing over her shoulder and finding Yamino close enough that she could see the blood still running from beneath her mask. "I've got a plan. It's wild, it's probably insane, and I don't know whether it's going to work, but it's the only thing I've got left, so I need you to trust me."
Silence held over the comms for several seconds while Dahlia kept running, each stride carrying her closer to the junction and the crane beyond it. When Light finally answered, the hesitation had given way to determination.
"All right," she said as the frantic tapping of keys resumed. "I'll get you there, but whatever you're planning, Night, I really hope you know what you're doing."
Dahlia's eyes hardened as the route appeared on her tracker. "That makes two of us."
****
The roar of the semi's engine merged with the chaos consuming Shibuya, where blaring horns, snarling mufflers, and the distant shriek of sirens rolled together beneath the first pale hours of morning. High above the road, on the narrow roof of the steel container, every strike between Barbarossa and Rekka seemed to fall into a rhythm of its own, marked by the pounding of their cleats against the metal and the hollow clang that followed whenever their weight shifted across the speeding rig.
Rekka drove forward with a growl, throwing fast combinations that moved from punches into vicious, arcing kicks, but Barbarossa never met her strength directly. She moved with a loose, swaying rhythm instead, her body shifting side to side in a deceptive cadence that made every retreat look like an invitation and every opening feel almost accidental. Whenever Rekka committed, Barbarossa slipped under the blow with a dodge, dropped low to avoid it, or cartwheeled out of range, landing already moving into the next exchange.
What looked like dancing was anything but careless. Every turn of Barbarossa's hips hid another attack, and every flourish placed her at an angle Rekka struggled to follow. A sweeping kick forced Rekka to lean away, a spinning kick came close enough for the heel to brush her mask, and a sudden spinning heel kick carved through the air with enough force that Rekka barely raised her guard in time. The kick struck her forearms with a heavy crack, sending a pulse of pain through both shoulders and making her flinch despite herself, while Barbarossa flowed back into her swaying rhythm with that same maddening smirk fixed beneath the brim of her tricorn.
Rekka answered with a wide hook, but Barbarossa dropped low beneath it, planted one hand against the roof, and swung her body into a low evasive drop before kicking both feet sharply into Rekka's torso. The impact drove the breath from her lungs and sent her stumbling backward across the vibrating container, yet Barbarossa never stopped moving. She rolled from one hand to the other in a cartwheel, legs scissoring overhead as Rekka was forced to retreat, then turned the motion into a spinning heel kick that whipped her foot across Rekka's face. Blood sprayed from her mouth as her head snapped to the side, and by the time Barbarossa rose from the movement, Rekka was already charging again with fury twisting her features.
Her first straight punch was brushed aside, though when she followed with the second, Barbarossa stepped inside, hooked one leg across Rekka's arm, and used the trapped limb to draw her forward. Rekka's eyes widened as Barbarossa dropped her weight, rolled backward through the motion, and carried her opponent over with a sweeping throw that sent her crashing flat onto the container. The steel boomed beneath her body, the impact rattling through the truck as Rekka cried out and clutched at the roof for balance.
Barbarossa spun lightly back onto her feet and returned to her swaying rhythm, shoulders loose and knees bent as though the fight had barely demanded any effort from her. "Shiver me timbers, lass, where in all the seven seas did ye learn to fight?" she asked, resting both hands upon her hips while Rekka struggled to breathe. "Some schoolyard full of noisy little brats throwin' chairs and callin' themselves dangerous? I'll give it to ye plain, because I've no wish to watch ye embarrass yerself longer than necessary. Forget puttin' a hole through me bow, ye haven't even managed to scratch the paint."
"Enough with the shitty pirate talk!" Rekka spat, sending a streak of blood across the white roof as she forced herself upright. "It's pissing me off!"
Barbarossa extended one hand toward her with mock courtesy, her body still swaying gently in rhythm. "Aw, and here I thought ye were the one askin' me to dance. It ain't my fault ye came stompin' aboard without learnin' the steps, though I'll confess, these little games are startin' to bore me."
Her amusement thinned as her eyes narrowed beneath the shadow of her hat. "Ye and that great whale Yamino have spent far too long plunderin' little ships and mistakin' frightened prey for worthy enemies. Now ye've sailed broadside into a man-of-war, lass, and this ship carries enough cannons to blast ye clean outta the water."
She lowered herself further, one foot sliding back as her shoulders rolled with the same easy, hypnotic motion, although the sharpness in her gaze made it clear the next exchange would carry none of the earlier playfulness. "So, unless ye want me makin' this humiliatin'ly easy, man ye own canons, and have another go."
Rekka's face twisted with rage as the steel beneath her boots buckled from the force of her launch. "Like I said," she snarled, driving herself straight toward Barbarossa with her fist cocked, "shut your goddamned mouth!"