Gibbs was uneasy.
Gibbs stood near the helm, papers spread out in his hands, his brow furrowed so deeply it looked permanently carved that way. He read once more, then again, lips moving as if repetition might somehow make the information less troubling.
Jack Sparrow lounged nearby, one boot propped on a crate, the other swinging lazily. He polished his compass with the corner of his sleeve, humming tunelessly and occasionally stopping to take a sip from a rum bottle that had appeared from inside his coat at some point without explanation.
"This," Gibbs finally said, shaking the papers as if they had personally betrayed him, "is why you don't take jobs from mafia bosses."
Jack glanced up, squinting one eye. "Is it because they're rude? Or because they pay in advance?"
Gibbs ignored him. "Van Augur. Tall. Thin. Carries a rifle longer than most men are tall. Shoots from distances where you can't even see the whites of a man's eyes."
Jack nodded slowly. "I don't like seeing the whites of a man's eyes anyway. Makes it personal."
"He never misses," Gibbs continued. "Not once. Every man Capone Bege sent after him—dead. One bullet. Clean. Efficient."
Jack considered that, then smiled. "Efficient menare unsettling."
Gibbs jabbed a finger at Jack's chest. "You took this job without thinking."
Jack reached into his coat and tossed a heavy pouch onto the deck. It hit the wood with a solid clink that echoed just enough to command attention.
Gibbs froze.
"…Is that what I think it is?"
"One million berries," Jack said lightly. "Advance."
Gibbs stared at the pouch as if it might bite him. He cleared his throat. "Well. In that case." He straightened his back. "We should approach this carefully. Strategically."
Jack smirked.
"Still reckless," Gibbs added quickly. "But… financially justified reckless."
They reached land the following day.
Tapu Island rose from the horizon as a sprawl of docks, stone buildings, and banners embroidered with gold. Everything gleamed just a little too much. Even the statues lining the port wore expressions of smug indulgence.
"This place reeks of money," Pintel muttered.
"And oppression," Gibbs added.
Robin had wanted to come ashore.
Gibbs and Jack had both said no at the same time.
Not a week after Ohara. Especially not in West Blue.
She hadn't argued. She stayed aboard with Ragetti, books spread around her, occasionally peeking up to ask when they'd be back.
Jack, Gibbs, and Pintel followed what Jack proudly called their "sacred pirate ritual" and headed straight for the nearest tavern.
The tavern was busy, but the laughter felt thin, restrained. People drank like they were afraid to be seen enjoying themselves. Conversations stopped and started too quickly, like everyone was listening for something else.
Gibbs set a stack of berries on the counter. "I'm looking for information."
The bartender eyed the money, then Gibbs. "About?"
"A tall sniper," Gibbs said. "Never misses."
The bartender stiffened immediately. His fingers closed around the berries as if anchoring himself. "If you mean that man… you're in the right place."
Jack leaned in. "Excellent. We like being right."
"He was here," the bartender said quietly. "Didn't drink. Didn't talk. Left before dawn."
Pintel frowned. "Suspicious."
"But the king heard about him," the bartender continued. "King Roma wanted him. Had him brought to the palace."
Gibbs swore under his breath. "Of course he did."
Before he could ask anything else, the tavern door slammed open hard enough to rattle the walls.
Five men strode in wearing royal guard uniforms—clean boots, polished armor, smug expressions. Their presence sucked the air out of the room. Conversations died instantly.
The bartender's face went pale.
One guard slammed his hand on the counter. "Fees."
The bartender swallowed. "I… I need more time."
The guard sneered. "You know the decree. One thousand berries a week."
"I serve pirates," the bartender said, voice shaking. "It's hard to—"
"Exactly," the guard interrupted, throwing a disgusted glance toward Jack and Gibbs. "You serve filth. Now pay."
"I can get it tomorrow," the bartender blurted. "Two thousand. Tomorrow."
The guard studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Tomorrow." He grabbed a bottle of wine. "Miss it, and we seize everything."
When they left, the tavern breathed again.
Gibbs leaned closer. "Who are they?"
The bartender laughed bitterly. "King Roma's dogs. He taxes everything. Even air, at this point."
Jack had gone quiet.
Unusually quiet.
Pintel leaned toward him. "Captain?"
Jack's gaze was fixed on the door the guards had exited through.
"Van Augur is in the palace," Jack said slowly.
Gibbs nodded. "Yes."
Jack stood up.
Gibbs frowned. "Don't."
Jack climbed onto a table, wobbling slightly as rum sloshed. "WHO WANTS TO START A REVOLUTION?"