AN: EXTRA LONG CHAPTER, SO NEXT ONE WILL COME TOMORROW
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Pintel and Ragetti did not agree on many things in life.
They didn't agree on who was the smarter twin (both claimed the other had stolen the "thinking half" at birth), they didn't agree on whether onions were edible or weapons, and they absolutely did not agree on whose turn it was to do anything that resembled responsibility.
But they agreed on this.
Nanohana was on fire, and they needed to leave.
The morning had arrived in the worst way possible—first with the dull orange glow of sunrise, then with the brighter orange glow of buildings deciding they had always wanted to be bonfires, and finally with the black smoke that rolled across the port like a blanket thrown by an angry god.
The Pearl wasn't the center of it, thankfully. She sat at the far edge of the docks like a dark spot, spared the worst of the bombardment by distance and—if Pintel was being honest—by the universe's strange habit of letting Jack Sparrow survive anything by throwing other people in front of him.
That didn't mean they were safe.
Because safe required direction.
And direction required Gibbs.
They stumbled below deck, half-running, half-slipping on their own panic, and burst into the men's quarters like a pair of criminals about to finally escape from prison after ten years.
Gibbs was in the hammock.
Gibbs was also dead to the world.
He snored loudly. Every breath rattled out of him like a cannon misfiring in slow motion. His head lolled to the side, mouth open, hair a complete insult to grooming.
Ragetti leaned in close, face pinched.
"Gibbs," he hissed. "Gibbs, wake up."
Gibbs responded by snoring louder, as if mocking them.
Pintel slapped Gibbs' cheek—lightly at first, then with more commitment, then with the kind of slap you'd deliver to a man who had just volunteered you for the gallows.
Nothing.
Ragetti tried shaking the hammock.
Gibbs rolled with it like a sack of potatoes and continued snoring with the serenity of a saint.
Pintel's face tightened. "He's ignoring us."
"He's unconscious," Ragetti corrected, as if Pintel had suggested Gibbs was practicing a new hobby.
"Same thing," Pintel muttered.
Ragetti looked around the cramped quarters as if the answer might be written on the wall. "We need him up. There's pirates outside. We need to leave."
Pintel's eyes narrowed with sudden inspiration.
Pintel was, as Ragetti often reminded him, an innovator. Occasionally that innovation was useful. More often it was illegal.
He marched over to the water barrel, scooped up a cup, and tossed it directly at Gibbs' face.
The water splashed. Gibbs coughed once, spat something incomprehensible, and promptly returned to snoring like he'd merely tasted the sea and found it salty-er than usual.
Ragetti blinked. "How is he doing that?"
Pintel was already moving.
He dragged a bucket over and dumped half of it onto Gibbs' chest. Gibbs flinched, then settled again, his body sinking deeper into the hammock like it was absorbing him.
Ragetti tried the next method: psychological warfare.
He leaned in and shouted, "JACK SPARROW IS DEAD!"
Gibbs' eyelid twitched. For one glorious moment, Ragetti thought it worked.
Then Gibbs' mouth moved and a slurred sentence crawled out.
"Good… luck to him…"
Ragetti stared. "Did he just… bless the captain's death?"
Pintel's temper snapped. "I'm going to commit something."
Ragetti grabbed his wrist. "Don't. Not here."
"I mean it," Pintel insisted, voice rising. "He's not waking up. He's abandoned us. I've been slapped by old women on land and now I'm being slapped by fate at sea. I demand—"
Ragetti clamped a hand over Pintel's mouth. "Shut up. Think."
Pintel's cheeks puffed with outrage behind Ragetti's palm.
Ragetti looked down at Gibbs, and an idea formed—the kind of idea that should have been arrested before it developed.
He grabbed Gibbs' shirt collar and leaned close to his ear.
"Gibbs," Ragetti whispered, "someone stole your flintlock."
Gibbs' hand twitched.
Ragetti nodded, encouraged. "They called you old."
Gibbs' fingers curled.
Ragetti added, "They said your beard looks like it is a nest to the most vile of the birds."
Gibbs' eyes cracked open halfway, bloodshot and murderous.
Pintel yanked Ragetti's hand away from his mouth. "Now say the one about nipples."
Ragetti hesitated. Even for them, some lines were sacred.
But survival was survival.
He leaned in again. "They said they're going to cut off your nipples and sell them as souvenirs."
Gibbs' eyes opened fully.
For one second, the entire world seemed to pause.
Then Gibbs emitted a sound that was part growl, part curse, and he rolled over—
Only to immediately fall out of the hammock, hit the floor, and remain there, face-down, snoring again.
Pintel stared at his collapsed body in disbelief.
Ragetti stared too, then slowly spread his hands, palms up, as if presenting an unsolvable riddle to the heavens.
"That," Ragetti said, voice hollow, "is not a man. That shouldn't be possible. Even I don't sleep like that."
"Well... you actually do."
Pintel bent down, shook Gibbs' shoulder once more, and got only a wet snore in return.
Up above, something heavy thumped.
Footsteps—boots, multiple, careless, the sound of people who assumed they owned whatever surface they stood on.
Pintel's eyes widened.
They heard another thump, closer, followed by a scraping sound—metal dragged along wood.
They looked at each other.
Pintel reached for his spike.
Ragetti hissed, "Quiet," as if Pintel's face had a volume knob.
They moved together, up the stairs, slow enough to avoid creaks, fast enough that their hearts didn't climb out of their chests and sprint ahead.
At the top, they paused just below deck level, listening.
Laughing voices.
A cutlass clinking against a railing.
And then the most offensive sound of all—someone casually opening a storage hatch like they belonged there.
Pintel's grip tightened on the spike.
Ragetti leaned forward, inch by inch, until his head cleared the deck.
Three pirates stood on the Pearl. Men with dirty coats and dirty smiles, the kind who smelled like cheap liquor and worse decisions.
They were rummaging. Checking crates. Kicking barrels. Peering into corners.
One of them—a lanky man with a chipped tooth—lifted a loose coil of rope and said, "See? Told you. Nobody's here. Easy ship."
Another, broader and carrying a cutlass like it was an extension of his ego, snorted. "Port's burning, everyone's busy looting the town. Who's gonna guard some fancy black boat on the edge?"
The third—a nervous one, hands too quick, eyes too sharp—kept glancing toward the port like he expected the fire to grow legs and chase them.
Pintel's jaw clenched. The nerve. The sheer nerve. The Pearl wasn't "some fancy black boat." She was a legend. She was—
She was also currently guarded by two idiots and an unconscious man.
Pintel raised his spike.
Ragetti grabbed his sleeve again, whispering, "Wait. Don't rush."
Pintel mouthed, furious: They are on our ship.
Ragetti mouthed back: Yes. That's why we're going to do it properly.
Pintel looked deeply unconvinced by Ragetti suggesting "properly" while they were about to murder trespassers.
Ragetti counted silently with his fingers.
Three.
Two.
One.
They burst up onto the deck.
Pintel moved first.
The lanky pirate turned too late, eyes widening, mouth opening to shout—
Pintel's spike cracked into his skull with a dull, final sound, and the man dropped like someone had simply turned him off... permamently.
Ragetti launched himself at the broad one and punched him square in the jaw with everything he had.
The pirate flew backward, feet leaving the deck, arms flailing, face contorting midair into a look of confused betrayal—
Then he went over the side and splashed into the sea.
Ragetti didn't even watch him fall. He never watched people fall. He'd learned that the hard way.
The third pirate froze.
He stared at Pintel holding a bloody spike.
He stared at Ragetti's clenched fists.
He stared at the still-warm dent in the air where his friend had been.
And then his cutlass hit the deck with a clatter.
Hands up. Palms open. Voice shaking.
"I surrender," he blurted. "I surrender, I surrender—don't kill me, please don't kill me."
Pintel stepped forward, breathing hard, furious enough to power the ship without wind.
Ragetti stepped beside him, equally furious but with the added bonus of not having blood on his weapon because he didn't have a weapon.
Pintel jabbed the spike toward the man's throat, not touching, but close enough the pirate's eyes crossed trying to track it.
"Name," Pintel demanded.
The pirate swallowed. "B-Baro."
"Baro," Ragetti repeated with disdain, like the name itself had insulted him.
Pintel leaned in. "Who are you and why are you on our ship?"
Baro's hands trembled. "We thought—We thought it was empty. Port's chaos. Ships are burning. People are running. My captain said we should check the docked ships because some of 'em got merchant cargo and nobody will notice—"
"Your captain," Ragetti said slowly. "Who."
Baro's gaze flicked between them like a trapped rat. "Munna Pirates. We're—We're affiliated. With the Carragher Pirates fleet."
Pintel's eyes narrowed. "Carragher."
Ragetti made a face. "That's the name people were yelling."
Baro nodded too quickly, desperate. "Yeah—yeah. Carragher Pirates Group. Big fleet. Lots of men. We didn't want trouble, we just—We just saw the black ship at the edge, not burning, not damaged, and we thought maybe—"
Pintel's lips peeled back. "You thought you'd steal from us."
Baro whimpered. "Yes."
Pintel inhaled, ready to commit violence again.
Ragetti held a hand up, suddenly solemn.
"Wait," Ragetti said.
Pintel turned to him. "What."
Baro blinked, still frozen.
Ragetti's eyes narrowed as if he had just remembered something holy. "Did you say… affiliated… with a fleet?"
Baro nodded rapidly. "Yes—Munna Pirates, under Carragher Pirates—"
Ragetti's face grew serious in a way Pintel rarely saw. "Then you've probably heard of the pirate code."
Pintel stared. "What are you talking about."
Baro's eyes darted. "Pirate… code?"
Ragetti nodded once, as if this was a courtroom and he was the judge. "Say it."
Baro hesitated. "Say what?"
Ragetti leaned closer. "Say the word."
Baro looked terrified. "Which word?"
Pintel's spike wobbled as Pintel's patience ran out. "Stop playing games, Ragetti—"
Ragetti snapped, "Parlay."
Baro's eyes widened as if he'd been handed a life raft. "Parlay! Parlay!"
Pintel froze mid-motion.
Ragetti's face became smug. "He invoked parlay."
Pintel's mouth hung open. "He invoked what?"
"The code," Ragetti insisted, voice grave. "Parlay. Negotiation. Temporary safety."
Pintel turned his head slowly toward Baro.
Baro nodded so hard his neck looked like it might snap. "Yes! Parlay! Code! No kill!"
Pintel stared at Ragetti like he had just announced the sea was made of soup. "Since when do we have a code? And why the fuck did you have him invoke parlay!?"
Ragetti pointed at Pintel's chest as if the answer was obvious. "He didn't know about it so I decided I ought to teach him. We're pirates so we have to uphold the code. And also teach about the code to others."
"You are an idiot," Pintel hissed.
"We're honorable pirates," Ragetti repeated with even more authority.
Pintel glanced down at the blood on his spike, then back at Ragetti. "Pirates are not supposed to be honorable!" He took a few seconds to cool down before speaking, "So I can't kill him?"
Ragetti shook his head. "Not until the parlay is over."
Pintel's eyes went wide with outrage. "How do you end it?"
Ragetti looked thoughtful. "I think… it ends when someone decides it's ended."
Pintel stared. "That's not a rule. You just made it up."
Ragetti shrugged. "Pirate rules are mostly made up."
Baro stood there, hands up, trembling, watching them argue as if he'd stumbled into a lunatic court.
While Pintel and Ragetti debated whether "parlay" was a magical shield, Baro's eyes flicked to the ship's side.
He took one small step.
Pintel, still mid-argument, didn't notice.
Ragetti, still committed to being the brains of the operation, didn't notice either.
Baro took another step.
His heel hit the rail. He looked at the sea like it was salvation.
He swallowed.
Then he jumped.
The landing on the dock was ugly—feet slamming down, knees buckling—but he didn't stop. He ran like fear had hands and they were pushing him.
Pintel finally heard the thud and whipped around.
He saw Baro sprinting away, yelling something that sounded like a prayer.
Pintel blinked. "Was that… the parlay ending?"
Ragetti stared at the fleeing man, then nodded slowly. "I think so."
Pintel's face contorted. "So now we can kill him."
Ragetti nodded again. "Yes."
Pintel's grin turned savage. "Good."
Ragetti pointed down at the deck. "What about Gibbs?"
Pintel glanced toward the hatch as if Gibbs might have magically become awake out of pure neglect.
Pintel's eyes shone with a terrible idea. "He's in charge of the ship."
Ragetti looked at him like he'd suggested leaving a baby in charge of a cannon.
"He's unconscious," Ragetti argued.
"He's the most experienced," Pintel countered.
"He's face-down on the floor," Ragetti snapped.
Pintel waved a hand dismissively. "He'll wake up eventually."
"And if someone else boards?"
Pintel shrugged. "Then they'll learn."
Ragetti stared at him, aghast. "That's not a plan."
Pintel lifted his spike. "We're pirates. We aren't supposed to have plans. You know, the code."
Ragetti hated that Pintel used his own logic against him.
They vaulted off the Pearl and took off after Baro, weaving through the smoking port.
Nanohana was a scene out of a nightmare someone had tried to make comedic.
The docks were littered with fallen crates and half-burned ropes. Ships creaked and groaned as if complaining. Some were on fire, their crews screaming as they tried to cut them loose. Others were being boarded by laughing men who didn't care what they stole so long as they stole it.
Pintel and Ragetti shoved past a fleeing merchant who screamed at them like they were the cause of the apocalypse.
They passed two pirates beating a man for a ring. They passed guards dragging wounded civilians away from collapsed stalls. They passed a small group of pirates already arguing over who got to wear a stolen coat.
All of it blurred together into one loud, hot, stupid chaos.
Baro ran ahead, glancing back just once—eyes widening when he saw the two "ship demons" still following.
He yelped and turned hard into a narrow alley.
Pintel and Ragetti, fueled by rage and momentum and the foolish confidence of men who did not understand the concept of ambush, charged after him without slowing.
The alley swallowed them.
The heat from the burning port vanished abruptly, replaced by shade and the cold prickling sensation of being watched.
Pintel took two steps, then stopped dead.
Ragetti stopped too, almost running into him.
In front of them, the alley opened into a wider pocket of shadow.
And in that shadow were swords.
Guns.
Men.
Baro stood to one side, panting, pointing at them like he'd just delivered a treasure map.
"They're the ones!" he gasped. "They—They killed Rook and punched Jando into the sea!"
A voice answered him, low and unimpressed.
"And you ran to me."
Baro nodded quickly. "Yes, captain—"
Pintel's eyes locked on the figure who spoke.
A small man.
Too small.
Not a child—his posture was wrong for that. His presence was wrong for that. He stood with the sort of stillness that made other people feel like they were the ones out of place.
He wore a coat far too good for an alley ambush. A cigar hung from his mouth, ember glowing faintly in the shade. His eyes were narrowed, evaluating, as if Pintel and Ragetti were items he might purchase or break depending on mood.
And in his hands was a rifle so large it looked absurd—like someone had given a cannon to a stubborn dwarf and the dwarf had decided to make it everyone's problem.
Ragetti's throat tightened.
Pintel's voice squeaked before he could stop it. "Is… is that a dwarf?"
The small man's gaze slid to Pintel, slow and cold.
He exhaled cigar smoke.
"I'm going to let you regret that," he said.
Ragetti swallowed hard. "Uh—hello."
The man tilted his rifle slightly, not aiming yet, merely letting its weight speak.
Baro, emboldened by having a captain behind him, straightened his spine. "Captain Munna," he said loudly, "those are them!"
So that was it.
Captain Munna.
An affiliate of the Carragher fleet.
The kind of man who didn't loot with his own hands because his hands were reserved for making examples.
Munna's eyes flicked between Pintel and Ragetti, measuring their weapons, their stance, their confidence.
Then he glanced toward Pintel's spike.
The cigar bobbed slightly as his mouth curled.
"You two," Munna said, "were in a ship in the middle of a burning port, killed my men, and thought you'd walk away."
Ragetti's mind ran through options.
Option one: fight.
Option two: run.
Option three: die.
None looked appealing.
Pintel, in a moment of sudden, desperate cleverness, lifted his chin and squeaked, "Parlay?"
Silence.
Then Munna laughed—one short sound, like someone snapping a bone.
Munna stepped forward half a pace, the rifle's barrel angling down toward them in the lazy way of a predator that isn't worried.
"Parlay," Munna repeated slowly, savoring it like a joke. "You think you get to say a word and become untouchable."
Pintel's eyes widened. "That's the code."
Munna's smile sharpened. "The only code I respect is the one that says people who touch what's mine stop having hands."
Ragetti's stomach sank.
Pintel squeaked again, softer this time. "Parlay?"
Munna's eyes narrowed.
The men around him raised their weapons, the alley suddenly feeling much smaller.
And Ragetti realized, in the most unpleasant way possible, that "parlay" worked best when the other person was the kind of pirate who enjoyed pretending to be civilized.
Captain Munna did not look civilized.