Carragher drove Crocodile back with a brutal combination—fist, elbow, knee—each strike shaking the street beneath them. Sand burst apart with every impact, reforming just in time to keep her standing, but the effort showed. Dark blood stained her coat now, seeping through bandages that shouldn't have been torn open again.
She hissed under her breath and slid backward, boots carving lines into the stone.
"Oh?" Carragher sneered, rolling his shoulders. "Is that it?"
He stepped forward, looming. "If you really stood against Whitebeard, then maybe the old man isn't so strong after all."
Crocodile's eyes sharpened.
"You don't know his strength," she said coldly. "You don't even understand what it means."
Carragher threw his head back and laughed, loud and booming, the sound echoing through the shattered streets.
"The strongest man on the seas?" he mocked. "That title belongs to the only one man."
He cracked his knuckles. "And that's me."
"You got your ass handed to you by Kaido and you dream of beating Whitebeard?"
Crocodile lunged again, sand screaming as it hardened into a blade. Carragher met it head-on, fist colliding with her attack and shattering it into glittering grains. The recoil sent pain lancing through her arm, and she felt something tear inside her chest.
She cursed.
Whitebeard. Jack. Now this brute.
Her breathing was growing uneven. She cursed her wretched life.
MEANWHILE-
Jack Sparrow was having a wonderful dream.
He was stretched out on the Black Pearl's deck, hat tipped low, the sea calm and endless. A red-haired beauty sat beside him, feeding him grapes one by one while he lounged, entirely content. The breeze was perfect. The rum was endless. Life, for once, made sense.
Jack smiled lazily and reached for another grape.
Then he looked up.
The red-haired beauty smiled back.
But her face didn't have an ounce of feminine, or any beauty.
What she had, was a moustache and thick lips and eyebrows and a sharp big jawline.
She was a he.
"What happened Captain? Are the grapes a bit too sour?" She smiled at him.
Jack screamed.
He jolted awake with a shout, water sloshing violently around him. His arms flailed, knocking against porcelain, and he nearly slid out of the half-filled bathtub.
"AH—!"
Two familiar faces loomed over him.
Pintel. Ragetti.
Without thinking, Jack slapped Pintel across the face.
Pintel yelped and staggered back, clutching his cheek. "What'd you do that for?!"
"You gave me a nightmare," Jack snapped.
Ragetti put a consoling hand on Pintel's shoulder. "To be fair," he said solemnly, "your face does that."
He nodded to himself. "Once I dreamed a noodle-legged man chasing me through the deck. Turned around—was you."
Pintel burst into tears.
Jack winced. "Right. Sorry. Didn't mean to—" He patted Pintel awkwardly. "There, there."
He glanced around, confusion creeping in. The tiled walls. The cracked tub. Water pooling around his legs.
"…Why am I in a bathtub?"
Memory hit him like another punch.
Carragher.
Flying.
Walls.
Pain.
Jack groaned and tried to move. His right arm didn't respond.
He looked down.
It was wrong.
The skin was darkened, bruised deep purple and black, veins standing out unnaturally. His arm was locked stiff against his side, fingers curled and unmoving.
"…That's not good," Jack muttered.
Pintel and Ragetti leaned in, eyes widening.
Pintel recoiled. "A human arm shouldn't do that."
Ragetti nodded gravely. "Looks like it's about to fall off. Or explode. Or both."
Jack swallowed.
He tried to move his left arm.
Pain flared—but it moved.
Then he noticed it.
Redness creeping up the skin. Slowly.
Jack's breath hitched.
"…Oh no."
His heart began to race. The old hag's words echoed in his mind.
Haki reflux.
Body not ready.
Implode.
Jack clenched his jaw.
"I'm going to lose both arms," he whispered.
"What?" Pintel squeaked.
Jack stood, swaying slightly, water sloshing from the tub. Outside, the ground shook. A boom rolled through the air, followed by loud, triumphant laughter.
Ragetti peeked through a shattered window. "That's… definitely Carragher."
Pintel shook his head violently. "I don't want to fight that man. I like living."
Jack turned to them, eyes sharp despite the pain.
"Keep him busy," he said.
They froze.
"…What?"
"Help Croco," Jack continued. "She's holding him off."
Ragetti blinked. "Who's Croco?"
"The sand lady," Jack snapped. "New crewmate."
Their jaws dropped.
"A new crew member?"
"And she's made of sand?"
Before either of them could ask anything else, Jack waved them off with his working arm. "Go! Before she dies and I lose an arm!"
Pintel and Ragetti exchanged a look.
"…We're definitely dying," Pintel said.
"But at least it would be honorable death," Ragetti replied.
They ran.
Jack exhaled shakily and reached into his coat pocket, fingers fumbling until they closed around familiar metal.
His compass.
He flipped it open.
The needle spun wildly, trembling, before slowing.
Then it settled.
Pointing straight ahead.
Jack followed its direction—and felt his stomach drop.
Another massive boom thundered from that exact direction, close enough that dust fell from the ceiling.
Jack closed the compass.
"…Of course," he muttered.
He straightened, pain screaming through his body, and staggered out of the room.