Windmill Wanderers

[Terminally Chill]

“RUUUUUUUUGH!”

A calamitous crash crushed the quiet calm of Millton. Wood and plaster shrapnel ruptured outward as a single steel sole exploded through an unfortunate building's wall. The citizens roaming Windia's windmill-dotted industrial sector gasped, stunned by ear-breaking noise that had gripped their peaceful town.

“Get back here, bastard!”

Beck the Fighter emerged from the ruined rubble, dirtied but bulldozing forward despite the “minor” obstacle. The drunkard's bloodshot eyes were focused with deadly precision, reddened face wild with a predator's ferocity. He was hunting. The target fled with inhuman speed, standing well above the Flat Farm folk as it darted through them. Beck was barely keeping up, a reality made obvious by the frustrated veins pulsing in his forehead. Regardless, the wasted warrior continued his sloppy pursuit.

The fleeing figure took a sharp turn between two Windia workshops in attempt to lose the bounty hunter. Beck's sole sparked against the cobblestone as he made the same turn, nearly tumbling to the ground in his intoxicated state. Upon clearing the corner, the boozing bruiser found his prey cursing at a dead end. No longer moving in a blur, the runner's features were finally visible. The man had a lanky frame, fit with wiry muscle and dressed in only floral shorts and sandals. A sharply pointed nose was one of many distinguishing features, a mane of wild black hair whipping behind him as he turned to face his inebriated enemy. As Beck looked closer, it became apparent the bounty head wasn't a man at all. The azure hue of his skin was the first giveaway, but the oddest feature the man possessed was a brilliant blue fin starting at his head and traveling the length of his back.

He was a fishman. A sailfish fishman, to be exact.

“Heh. I knew it was you. You're that Red Tide Pirates courier!”

Beck finally caught his breath, taking a pull of rum as he collected himself. He suddenly ripped a scrap of paper from his jacket, displaying the fishman's malicious mug plastered on the front.

WANTED
DEAD OR ALIVE
“FLASH FIN” RIGAN
4,000,000

Straightening up to return to his usual menacing stance, the drunken destroyer flashed a dagger-tooth grin. The fishman known as Rigan shifted uneasily, reluctantly readying himself for the coming conflict.

“I hear you're one of the fastest in the Blues. Guess that don't mean shit on land, huh?” Beck let out an unimpressed snort. He closed his eyes, inhaling a deep drag from his cigarette. “I don't know why you're here in a place like this, but you're an easy 4 mill as far as I see.” A thick cloud of smoke enveloped the alcoholic's animalistic features.

“I'm bringin' you in.”

“Beck the Fighter, I take it?” Rigan spoke calmly, voice devoid of fear despite the knowledge of Beck's violent reputation. “Your first mistake...”

The flash fin's arms dropped to his side, webbed fingers outstretched. The faint sight of liquid dripping from each digit could be seen. Beck raised an eyebrow, unsure of what the cornered courier was planning.

“... Was underestimating me on land!”

Beck's shoes snapped from the concrete the instant Rigan made a move. The sail back flicked his hands forward. The rummed-up rumbler found was halted, back slamming roughly against the ground before he realized what happened. Opening his eyes, Beck found his vision blurred from disorientation instead of drink. Shaking his head, the boozing barbarian touched his suit jacket. The spot where one of the bullet-force blows had struck. Beck looked to his hand, expecting his fingertips to be stained crimson. However, the liquid was clear.

'Water...?' Beck rubbed the substance between his fingers, murky mind attempting to make some sense of what landed him on his back. The drunken desperado was given little time to dwell on Rigan's unorthodox fighting style, as the fishman in question was making a breakneck sprint passed the fallen fighter.

“Hell no!”

One of the smoker's shins suddenly carved through the air just as Rigan rushed by, sweeping the fishman's legs from beneath him with brutal efficiency. The flash fin crashed into the street, letting out a grunt full of more frustration than pain. The sail fishman's sandals gripped the ground once more as he scrambled to stand. An ominous shadow enveloped Rigan as he finally began his flight once more. The Red Tide runner turned, eyes widened in shock as a monstrous force descended upon him until...

CRASH!

The concrete caved beneath a single skull-crushing stomp. Rigan's head was buried into the shattered mess, Beck letting out his usual barbaric battle cry as he drove his enemy into the street with one decisive blow. “Flash Fin” made not effort of moving, face bloodied, eyes blank and body slightly twitching after receiving the brunt of Beck's ridiculous strength. The alcoholic assailant grunted, straightening out his suit jacket and spitting blood onto the crumbled crater. A drink of rum washed the taste of iron from his mouth and dulled the pain of Rigan's mysterious water-slinging.

“Guuuuuh...”

Windia workers peeked around the corner of the dead-end alley, eyes bugged out upon witnessing the carnage the sloshed stranger had caused. Amid the destruction, Beck caught a glimpse of an envelope discarded on the ground. While Rigan was nothing more than beri in hand to the drunken brawler, he couldn't help but be curious as to why a courier would be in a place like Flat Farm Island. Beck ripped the thick envelope open, unfolding the contents. The first page was a hastily-scrawled letter.

“Captain Sunauto,

The twins and I were defeated in Resinbar. We retreated to the West Blue from the Grand Line. My deepest apologies for our failure. The posters of the three responsible are included.

May the spilling of their blood fuel the Red Tide.

- Commander Thumper”

Beck raised an eyebrow, unsure of what sort of event transpired in Resinbar and who this “Thumper” character was. The Red Tide Pirates were vaguely known to the bounty hunter. Their name only held weight because a few of their lower cronies had bounties in the west and were on Beck's radar. Rigan included. With a shrug, Beck carelessly discarded the letter onto Rigan's motionlessly body.

The posters were directly behind the letter. The first of them was an unassuming kid with an aloof manner, hair an unkempt mess and a guitar held on his lap. How the hell did this guy defeat anyone?

WANTED
DEAD OR ALIVE
“SIX STRING SLINGER” GAVIN D'ARRAS
41,000,000

Regardless of how harmless he looked, the rookie possessed an impressive bounty. Beck moved the guitarist named Gavin aside, looking to the stone-faced girl beneath. A set of goggles sat atop her eyesore head of emerald hair. The chick looked like she had more fight in her than the musician, but had she really gone toe-to-toe with pirates in the Grand Line?

WANTED
DEAD OR ALIVE
“LITTLE CONQUEROR” WINRY SAITO
26,000,000

The last of the posters made Beck let out a chuckle. Pictured was a blonde kid with a purple scarf and matching headband, face the picture of someone scared out of their mind. If the Gavin was unassuming, the hammered hunter wasn't sure what to call the last of the trio.

WANTED
DEAD OR ALIVE
“LUCKY SCARF” NOLAN WARD
16,000,000

Did Thumper send the wrong posters over? Or maybe the Marines got the wrong pictures? Perhaps Beck was saving three unknowing nobodies an untimely death. Still, an 83-million-beri haul was nothing to scoff at.

“These kids look like a joke to me, but I'll hold onto these just in case.” The fighter stuffed the three posters into his suit jacket. After all, Rigan wouldn't need them where he was going. “Guess all the action's in the Grand Line.” Beck took a smooth drag from his cigarette, eying the fishman to make sure he stayed in place. The fighter placed a foot on his catch's back to make sure.

Soon enough familiar footsteps cut through the buzz of the murmuring crowd. The man Beck was waiting for had finally arrived. The western waster shot his company a venomous look, sneering after taking a great gulp of rum.

“Just where the fuck have you been?!”

[Deleted]

"No!"

Oaklan burst from his sleep in an explosion of bedding, his hands flew to his neck grasping desperately. For a moment he sat bolt up right as a chilling cold sweat ran down the length of his back. Slowly the tension left his body, the pupils of his crazed red-brown eyes widened and turned to the window. The curtains were open a crack, allowing a beam of sunlight to rest upon the bed. Fully awake the snow haired swordsmen pulled himself from the temple to comfort that he had constructed the night prior, he had been told to take what he liked from the linen closet and never had he had a comfier sleep. Arriving at the window he flung the curtains back and greeted the late morning.

"There's still some poison left..." he muttered to himself, but despite the nature of his wakening even the ever serious Shandian could not maintain a black mood.

The two hunters had spent the night in an inn that sat on the edge of the city. Milton was the only city on Windia, an otherwise largely flat island that consisted of small villages and fields for pasture. The view from the window was too mundane to be called spectacular, and yet in a way that is what it was. The homely buildings largely didn't match and each was lined with some strange variety of windmill like generator. Behind those were open fields full of long grass that danced in the gentle breeze. It didn't remind the ex-slave of any of his homes, but then perhaps that in itself was the reason it felt so homely. After a short while he gathered both his head and single belonging and left his room.

Plodding footsteps on the hardwood floors alerted the middle aged landlord to his temporary tenants awakening. His name was Elbert and for some reason he seemed happy to see the hunter.

"G'morning, sleep well did ya?" he asked, somewhat assuming.

Oaklan nodded and managed a smile.

"Good, good... That fella' you were with headed on out a short while back, well now that I think about it, it wasn't that short a while. In any case, he told me you'd handle the payment, including his tab."

Something in the swordsman's features must have reflected his thinking as Elbert began to nervously twist the bar rag he was holding. He didn't want to make trouble, especially not with a man with a sword at his hip. Nor however did he want to lose the best business he'd had in a long while.

"He did, huh?" Digging into his pocket the bounty hunter produced a small sack containing what remained of his share of the spoils from Stetson.

"I dunno if this will cover that bastards tab, but it's all I got." Without gripe he tossed the sack to the inn owner, who expecting disappointment was fairly pleased with what he found inside.

There were mainly beri notes and only a few coins in the sack and at a glance it looked to be roughly what he was owed, if indeed not slightly more. Leaving on a favourable note the two men exchanged brief goodbyes and headed back to the rest of their lives. For Oaklan, that entailed at least usually hunting criminals and exchanging their life for cash. Strange then that he actually cared so little about money, he didn't indeed take that much pleasure from the killing - at least not usually. However, an empty wallet or in his case sack, felt oddly disappointing. It was all the reward he'd had for going toe to toe with one the greatest active bounty hunters in the west and most of it had gone on his partners boozing. That was what was most annoying, it was the sentiment of it all. In Beck's case, sometimes, he'd really enjoy the killing.

The duo hadn't done much since their escapades on Stetson, but nor had they traveled entirely without incident. Behind their new partnership already lay a string of minor criminals and snippets of information. They'd come here tracking a shadow, rumours of a certain man who Beck seemed to think it was important they talked to. In truth Oaklan too was keen in meeting this man. The esteem in which he had been held for merely surviving his encounter with 'Double Step' had felt good. He was finally good at something. Never before had he had ambitions outside of freedom, but bounty hunting wasn't just a way to pay for meals anymore. He wanted to be big time.

'We're gonna need to find a head soon or we ain't gonna have any cash to get off this island. That damned grandpa drank so much on Stetson I wouldn't be surprised if all his share lines Chrissy's pocket.'

Chrissy, the image of that girl sat somewhat invasive in the rookie hunter's head. Something about her sassy self awareness really made her appeal to Oaklan, her blonde hair and killer body didn't hurt either.

'Still, I'm pretty sure that fucker has already had his disgusting hands all over her.' The thought was enough to push the buxom blonde gunslinger from his mind.

Somehow Beck did not prove difficult to locate. Following the sound of explosive carnage brought him in range of his barbaric yells and from there he was impossible to miss. It was just a short journey into the industrial side of the city and soon enough there he was. What the silver-haired hurt for hire had set his mind to was of little interest to the Shandian.

“Just where the fuck have you been?!” he asked from his haughty position, foot planted on the back of some defeated opponent.

"Me? I've been payin' for your shitty disease, you bastard." Approaching Beck the white-haired young warrior flexed his sword hand. His gaze though turned from his partner to the prey, a fishman with a long fin.

"I see though, you already got me what you borrowed huh?"

Sliding his second Stetson-forged bastard blade from it's sheath he menaced the weapon above his head. For a moment he stared at his repayment before finally giving a shrug. Then casual as you like he swung his blade down, the strike aimed for the Red Tide courier's neck.

[/blockquote]

[Terminally Chill]

“What the hell are you doing?!”

CLANG!

The decapitating deathblow fell short of its destination, prevented from slicing through the fallen fishman's neck by a single steel sole. Beck's teeth ground together loudly as he fended off Oaklan's Stetson sword, veins pulsing in his head from a combination of strain and irritation. Some of the crowd still held hands their hands to their mouths, gasping over the prospect of witnessing the violent public execution. Any sighs of relief from the Flat Farm populace were drowned out though, stifled by the tension between the two bounty hunters.

“Isn't it obvious?!” Oaklan spat back through his own clenched jaw as the deadlock continued. “It's called a bounty head!”

“That's way too literal, dumbass!” Beck shoved his shoe against the blade, slightly inching the standoff in his favor. “He's worth more alive and I ain't losin' out on a drink 'cause of you!”

“You bastard boozer!” Oaklan's muscles tensed as he pressed forward, gaining a slight edge against his unlikely companion. “Why don't you drink my god damn fist?!”

“Wh-what?! That doesn't even make sense!”

There was an intense silence between the two, their unwavering glares of mutual disdain electrifying the air. The concrete threatened to cave beneath the weight of the hunter duo's stances as their weapons returned to the stonewall stalemate. The spectators looked on, shifting uneasily before the heavy silence devolved into:

“ORRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”
“YUUURRRRAAAAAAAAGH!”

The impasse erupted into an explosive storm of steel as shoe and sword collided. People fled in fear as the destructive dust-cloud spilled into the streets. The ridiculous scuffle was luminescent of the barbarian's last brawl in Pecos, deflecting and ducking each others' attacks with neither gaining much of an advantage. Beck managed to gain the upper hand for a brief moment amid the turmoil, clenching Oaklan's face in his free hand. Before the boozing bruiser could deliver any further punishment, a blue flash darted through his peripheral vision for vanishing entirely. The mysterious blur distracted Beck, allowing the savage Shandian to break the vice-like hold with a sideways swipe of his arm. Before the drunken destroyer could react, Oaklan drove his knuckles into the side of his partner-opponent's stubbled cheek with a sudden right hook.

Beck tumbled across the street, reeling from the stiff punch. The alcohol did well to numb the pain, as the alcoholic assassin managed to shake off the blow and scramble to his feet without much trouble. Once on his feet, the hammered hunter surprisingly had little interest in continuing the street fight as his steel-haired head snapped to the spot where he had left Rigan. Beck's bloodshot eyes widened in shock.

“He's gone!”

The rum wasn't playing tricks on Beck's vision – he was right. While the two mercenaries were slugging it out, Rigan decided to live up to his “Flash Fin” epithet and escaped with barely a notice. A frustrated sigh of smoke soon followed the realization.

“You son of a bitch...” Beck's words escaped in a low growl, his glare smoldering like the cherry of his cigarette as he turned to Oaklan.

“This is your fuckin' fault! You know that, right?!” The rummed-up rumbler closed the distance between himself and the snowy-haired swordsman, inches away from his hunting partner's face.

“Four mil ain't our biggest haul, but that fishy bastard ain't gettin' away.” A deep drink of rum calmed Beck's nerves enough to not cause another brawl in the middle of the street. “I should make you go find him yourself, but then neither of would get paid.”

The smoker's cigarette was spent, burned into ash in seconds by the drunkard's anger. Beck turned away from Oaklan, calming himself enough to not crush the pack of cigarettes he withdrew from his dark coat. A fresh stick of tobacco was placed in between his rum-stained lips and a lightning-fast flick of the metal lighter brought life to the cigarette.

“I don't care if we gotta search this whole damn hick town of an island.” Trails of smoke wreathed Beck's hardened features as he glanced toward the sellsword.

“We're finding him.”

SPOILER: Click to show

Note: All Oaklan dialogue written by Taro.

[Deleted]

"My fault?" cried the exasperated rookie hunter. Partnering with Beck was a god-damned headache.

"When's the last time you seen a head run away?" he spoke conclusively, as if the matter were settled. His face remained passive seemingly undeterred by the vanishing of their next payday.

"I got this."

Whirring on his heel with a flash of sliding steel the swordsman had unsheathed his stetson-forged bastard blade. The fishman known as "Flash Fin" Rigan was more than living up to his title, he was fast - perhaps even as fast as Deroix had been. Yet this was precisely the reason Oaklan's eye had just managed to follow the target, a blue dot vanishing into the distance. Adopting an uncharacteristically elegant stance, Oaklan trailed the would be escapee with the tip of his sword. With split legs and the flat of his blade facing skyward he ran his left hand along the top of the cold steel steadying his aim. His eyes narrowed and his muscles tensed as his last chance to strike fast approached. Then suddenly with a burst he struck forward like a cobra springing from it's coil; a piercing thrust driving forward point toward the now almost invisible bounty head. Utmost concentration was reflected in the steely eyes of the swordsman as he observed his mark with a deadly determination, a silent moment passed and then... the dot vanished. The silent expectation was cut short by the light breeze.

"Huh..." the ex-slave commented, apparently surprised with the events outcome.

"Fuck, HE'S GONE!" realisation finally setting in, yet again Beck's issues were interfering with the job. How did he ever get anything done before they'd partnered up? "If he's that fast on land, well... we gotta get to him before he gets to the sea."

Resting the blade back in it's scabbard Oaklan set off in the same loose direction that the Red-Tide courier had been travelling. This was going to be a bother. If the fishman had business on the island then he could take refuge in any of a large amount of buildings, or out of the way mills or farmhouses that were home to some secret purpose. Or, if things went as the half-human worried, he would make it to the shore unharassed. So as the rookie hunter ran heavy footed along the streets of Millton, a strange and distinctally foreign sensation twitched within the dark recesses of his skull, he was thinking.

"Fishmen ain't all that welcome in most placed considered civil, and thinkin' about it, I ain't seen a fishman since... well, coming 'ere. Maybe we just ask around a bit, if he really wants to leave we already lost him. If he's stickin' around, then as you say... it's just a matter of lookin'."

Having been weaving through market stalls in much the same way a bull weaves through a china shop, Oaklan had distanced himself further enough from the initial scene of confrontation to have been forgotten. However by nature of their short-lived headlong pursuit, the bounty hunter duo had a way of drawing the eye. Skidding to a halt the snow-haired swordsman decided to act upon his own initiative - Beck was always one for ordering and acting in charge, but his idea of leg work seemed to largely consist of well, brutal kicking.

A short while later and Oaklan's forthright manner of interviewing had produced a result. Many of the local marketeers and customers alike had reported seeing the blue flash just a moment ago, but that lead was already cold. None had seen the fishman and none could tell anything of him, at least initially. However as the snow-haired swordsman quizzed another stall owner, a young lad stepped forward with some information.

"Begging your pardons mister, I can't say I have seen this fish-person character either, but it's funny, you aren't the first person to ask that question today. We don't get much in the way of bounty hunters around here neither, not since becoming a World Government island. I can't imagin--"

As the country lad yammered on he maneuvered away from the point of interest, so Oaklan made a point to push him back on course.

"That's great kid, but this guy - what'd he look like, he say anythin'? Where'd he go?" as he spoke his brown-red eyes examined the lad. Clearly eager to help, too full of the pent up excitement young men in small communities had. The boy all but dropped the crate he was assumedly hired to haul.

"Can't say much for him, a fairly normal looking man for the most. Kinda' slick, a big city type for sure, a gentlemen. He spoke fancy for a hunter but he had the same poster as your friend there. He asked about that fish-folk and I couldn't tell him about that, so he asked some other stuff."

Shooting Beck a meaningful look, the swordsman's interest was clearly piqued.

"What stuff?" he pressed.

"Not much of interest, he asked about new buildings. Seemed interested in the industrial sector, mentioned something about the government and went on his way." The boy sensed a larger picture that he wasn't privy to, his manners kept him from asking questions but his curiosity was clear in his fidgeting.

"To the industrial sector?" Oaklan had no desire to sate the curiosity of the local lad, they'd just come from that way. Had they missed anything, were they against competition and was that competition him?

"Couldn't say for sure, perhaps. Wouldn't surprise me if he was. D'yknow him? He seemed important. What did this fish guy do anyways?" That it seemed was that.

"Shut up kid," was all the thanks that was given for the farming hand's trouble. As they turned back the way they'd came, of all the questions bouncing around in the Shandian's skull only the most recent voiced itself.

"Yeah... so what did this guy do?"

[Terminally Chill]

“Thanks for the tip, kid.”

The hammered hunter turned away from the country lad, whose expression sank as the exciting moment came to an abrupt end and his questions were left unanswered. However, the spark returned to his eyes as Beck flicked a single beri coin behind his back. The windy-city kid fumbled with the token, excited more about being rewarded by the rough-and-tumble stranger than the monetary value.

Despite his brutish exterior, Beck needed to retain some form of social skills in his line of work. The boozing bruiser knew the bounty hunting game well. A tip was a tip, regardless of the informant's age. Although the Flat Farm boy didn't have much to say about the duo's finned foe, his blabbering did offer some unintentional insight to a looming shadow the two bounty hunters were grasping at.

“Yeah... So what did this guy do?”

A thick cloud drifted from Beck's lungs as he stuffed a single hand in his pocket, beginning a sluggish trot forward. The other hand brought bottle of rum to his lips, a hefty drink helping to collect his thoughts in light of the new information.

“I guess runnin' is a crime, 'cause I haven't seen that fishy sunova bitch doin' much else.” The drunken desperado didn't bother turning to address his partner, continuing forward with a calm in his stride contrasting to their urgent rampage through the city.

“I don't know much about the Red Tide Pirates. Pretty sure most of them are in the Grand Line, but sounds like some got their asses beat and came back to the West. I hear their captain is spillin' a lot of blood wherever he goes, so I'm sure 4 mil isn't much to the Marines for a chance to get their hands on what info Rigan is runnin'.”

The smoker's steel soles came to a halt against the street, the windmill city's ever-present breeze dancing with the smoke trailing from his cigarette.

“We got bigger fish to fry, though. Judging by the look you gave me back there, you know who I'm talkin' about.” Beck turned to Oaklan, his steely eyes stoically serious.

“This sounds like our guy. I'd like to think I'm pretty in the know, and I can't think of anyone else in the West with clout like that who'd be askin' about Rigan. Maybe some high-rankin' marine or a World Government suit, but in a place like this...? I mean damn, I remember my folks threatenin' to ship me here back in the day if I didn't shape up, so it's gotta be clean.”

The fallen fighter took a moment to scan his surroundings once more. The kid was right – The United Farms of Windia had only recently joined the World Government. Aside from that development and Milltown's blossoming industrial sector, Flat Farm island was a picture of simple, rural living. The place was similar to the stories told in Winchester growing up: a sprawling island dotted with villages full of farmers and windmills. Even with its World Government involvement, the island was hardly the picture of any high-profile activity.

“No sign of a marine ship since we got here or any at all trace of those white-capped pricks. I think we both know they aren't fans of travelin' solo.” Despite being a fully-realized drunkard, Beck was still surprisingly perceptive. “The World Government is more hush-hush, but they got the best intel in the world. I'm pretty sure if the Red Tide was a big enough problem, they'd be in the Grand Line sortin' it out.”

The customary drink of rum followed the deductions, the red in the boozed-up brawler's cheeks betraying his clarity of thought.

“On the other hand, I might be completely fuckin' wrong,” Beck admitted shamelessly, potentially revealing his entire thought process as drunken ramblings. “Either way, we've been lookin' for this shady bastard Whoever it is, if he's interested in Rigan, then it sounds like we'll be runnin' into 'em both. Good thing too, 'cause...”

Another hefty pull from the bottle interrupted the lush's planning. After the drink was done, Beck swilled the vessel's paltry remains in the bottom with a dissatisfied look on his hardened face.

“... I'm gonna need that bounty for another bottle or two.” [/size][/blockquote]

[Deleted]

Running, Oaklan too had done his fair share. You oftentimes heard pirates complain about a life on the run, but a caged animal would kill for a chance to stretch it's legs. In truth the swordsman had something of a soft spot for the persecuted and few had it worse than the fishmen. To many in the blues they were an alien, monstrous creature. Yet in the hands of the nobility, like all others, they had been reduced to mere toys. Being a bounty hunter meant picking the head and justice for the ex-slave was his whim. Partnering Beck thus far they'd taken in every head that had crossed their path. The booze-hound seemed in a strange way a true professional, quick and indiscriminate. With his new found identity was the snow haired swordsman a cool-headed, cold hearted contract killer?

'Nah,' Oaklan dismissed himself. He was much the same as ever. This guy could be anyone, he was nothing special. He knew he was being hunted and if he didn't leave when he had the chance then he would soon find whether his self-confidence was misplaced.

The headstrong hunter duo had looped back around to the outskirts of the industrial sector, behind were the bustling rural market streets, replaced with a kind of hushed vitality. Mills spun and cogs turned and somewhere a generator was doing something, although Oaklan's understanding stopped at cogs. To describe the streets as quiet however was only true relatively, workers walked two and fro as did pedestrians cutting from one part of the town to another. Still from his vantage the young sellsword could see a fair way down the street.

The Shandian's eyes scanned face to face as he walked at a pace that would not draw unwanted attention. He was looking as much for a certain suited individual as he was for the fishman, whose escape in truth would not be entirely disappointing. After all, the couriers life would probably amount to little more than a hungover Beck, which translated as two headaches. Then finding flash fin may lead to better things and if not it would at least lead to a meal and passage to the next hunting ground.

After several minutes of directionless wandering and unfruitful searching Oaklan's limited patience was wearing exceedingly thin.

"He's prob'ly already way gone and if he weren't, every second we waste with this the more likely he is to get gone." The duo had come to pause at the foot of one of the largest mills in the industrial sector. It's shadow stretched out across the street and it whirred lightly and efficiently, no evidence of rust or strained clunking of age radiated from the building.

One moment the rookie was talking to his partner, the next he had vanished from the street altogether. Scaling the cream coloured building was not a difficult task as the white-haired youth bounded across some lower roofs, muscled his way up some windowsills and eventually latched himself to one of the eight windmill blades. Initially clinging on was a little difficult as he hung horizontally but soon enough he leveled out the right way and as he rose ever higher he was turned head-side up.

For a moment it seemed his aerial position was going to be no more enlightening that wandering the ground had been, but then by pure chance his eyes fell upon exactly what they had been seeking. Not two streets away a poorly cowled fishman emerged from an unremarkable building, his head was down and he quickly flicked the hood over his fin but it was a moment too late.

"THERE HE IS, THAT WAY!" Oaklan yelled from atop the mill, gesturing wildly toward the bounty head.

How fast Beck reacted he never saw, for the next few seconds his eyes were focused solely on the Red Tide courier, who was now staring back at him. Stalled for a moment into stillness by nothing more than pure bemusement it did not take the runner long to take to his trade and make a second break for it.

"HE'S GONNA-- Ehh? Oh fuuuUUUGGGH!" the inevitable happened, as the wheel continued on it's path the swordsman was sent sliding head over heals toward the hard road below. His frantic gesturing turned to a windmilling of his own as he attempted to right himself before crashing explosively into the concrete street, dust flying up all around him. So much for subtlety.

[Terminally Chill]

Beck turned away from the ridiculous spectacle of his partner, bloodshot eyes flashing in the vague direction Oaklan had flailed toward. A fair distance away, the brawling boozer recognized the brief sight of a recognizable fin turning a corner ahead. Before he could take off in another mad dash, Beck's advance was halted by the catastrophic clamor of Oaklan's smashing into the concrete. He quickly whirred around to make sense of what the savage swordsman was even doing.

“Eeeeh?! We're in the middle of a chase and you're falling off of shit?!” The drunkard's head snapped in the same direction as before, letting out a low growl. “Useless...” Beck mumbled, smoke trailing behind him as his steel soles exploded from the street into a wild rush in Rigan's general direction. In reality, Oaklan was far from useless, considering he was the one to find the fleet-footed fishmen's trail once again. Beck was the last person to give out praise, though.

Both laborer and and pedestrians alike were pushed to the street as the drunken desperado shoved through them indiscriminately, rum-ridden blood boiling upon entirely losing sight of Rigan once more. At this point, Beck was running blind and taking out his frustration unnecessarily on whoever happened to cross his path. As the fallen people cried out and yelled profanity to the manic mercenary, his mind raced to predict the route the flash fin had taken. Beck had been hunting criminals for years now. Thinking like one wasn't a problem; his actions were already closer to that of the men and women he hunted any “lawful” person.

An alley between two buildings caught his attention: the perfect break in a linear route of escape. Beck cut a quick turn down side street, recovering from a brief spell of double-vision after the sudden change in momentum. His sloppy dash continued, rushing urgently to make it to the parallel path ahead. The boozing bruiser burst onto the windmill-dotted street, startling any passersby that happened to be out for a stroll. Beck's steely-haired head snapped one way and then the other for some sign of the finned free-runner.

Nothing.

“Tch... Lost him. Again.” Deadened ash followed the light gust of a windmill as Beck inhaled a hefty drag from his cigarette, catching his breath and reflecting on the next move to take in order to capture the Red Tide runner. A thick plume of smoke drifted into the air and was soon carried away by Windia's precious breeze.

'At least we know he's stickin' around here for some reason. That shitty swordsman is right – if he wanted to go, he'd be gone.'

The fighter was allowed little time to react to a sudden blur that appeared just below his line of sight. Beck looked down, but found no sign of the phantom flash. A faint pattering beside him drew his attention after the abnormal occurrence, but it was a voice that quickened his reaction.

“Thanks asshole.” Rigan had appeared once more, running in place a safe distance from the hammered hunter's reach. There was dried blood on his face earlier from Beck's brutal beating. The fishman held up three pieces of paper with a proud grin, a few teeth missing. “I was waiting for you to come to me so I could get these back.” They were the bounty posters from earlier. Rigan carefully rolled them and placed them back in his shorts-pocket. “The commander wouldn't be too happy if those kids didn't face retribution, you know?”

Beck's smoldering eyes widened, patting at his chest to make sure the flash-finned fishman had actually pilfered the papers with such undetectable speed. There was no crinkle beneath his suit coat, meaning Rigan had recovered the real deal.

“Later, chump!” The fishy trickster took off in a blaze, fully intending to escape Flat Farm Island and deliver the message. Just when a speedy retreat seemed inevitable, the injuries inflicted earlier by Beck suddenly electrified Rigan's body, sending him clumsily crashing into a pile of crates. “Gah, shit...” the fishman muttered, scrambling from the splintered wreckage to his feet and dashing away once again. He looked back with a sheepish smirk, face reddened and pride damaged after ruining the exit.

Beck remained still, face shocked and cigarette smoldering. The fighter was still processing the turn of events, unsure how the courier had managed to get the better of him and still look like an idiot at the same time.

“Get... BACK HERE, BASTARD!”

The alcoholic assassin's demand could be heard throughout the streets, echoing his rum-fueld rage across Milltown. Beck broke into a bull-like charge, steel soles pounding against the pavement and reddened glare keenly focused on the movements of Rigan ahead of him.

The chase was on... Again.

[Deleted]

It had taken the Shandian a precious few seconds to regain his wits. Exploding from the dust cloud of his own creation he moved just fast enough to catch glimpse of Beck's steel shoes flash around a corner and out of sight. Jerking his head to and fro he spotted a promising looking side alley and set off at breakneck speed in pursuit. Cutting across into another wide spaced and largely empty street, Oaklan was left with little choice but to trust his gut and pick a direction. His instincts proved loosely right as above the usual din of the industrial sector and bustle of everyday folk came the coarse cry of his work associate.

“BASTARD!” It was definately him.

Worn rubber soles burned across the stone street as the ex-slave near enough barreled over. Aggressively changing his direction the rookie hunter wasted no time with trivialities such as navigating the city and instead decided to cut straight to the action. Amongst the larger mills and assorted buildings were smaller local businesses that helped supplement the industrial sector. One such shop was unfortunate enough to be in Oaklan's way, selling what looked to be small and exceedingly boring machine parts. A bell rang signaling the arrival of a new customer.

"Hel-- huh?" a gruff voice pierced the shop as a grizzled mechanic glanced lazily up to catch glimpse of the white-haired blur tearing through his store.

CRRRUUWWOOOOSH!

"What the bloody hell!?"

With little more than a flash of steel the swordsmen blew the whole back wall of the shop into the adjacent street. Debris showered into the intended path of the unusually panicked fishman who was not used to pursuers who could well, pursue him. Erupting through the air in a massive cleave it was all 'Flash Fin' Rigan could do to clumsily avoid the snow-haired swordsman and half the building he brought with him. Tumbling to a halt and then scrambling on all fours the four million bounty head managed barely to out pace the Shandian's swing, twice now had Oaklan failed to decapitate him.

Making it back to his feet the blue finned fishman blurred back to his full pace and began to distance himself from the two craziest bounty hunters he'd ever encountered. Having timed his entry well the swordsman found himself ahead of his partner and with what would likely be his prime opportunity to end the chase. The longer the running lasted the less likely they were to catch the Red Tide courier and so tightening his sword-arm the swordsman readied the least refined of the moves in his arsenal. Not yet more than four meters behind his prey and the target rounded another corner. This was the moment. Twisting expertly around the corner Oaklan was determined to end things now. Hurtling into another alien street he ripped into a spin as he readied to hurl his blade at the inhuman sprinter. Yet where there was supposed be a blue streak instead his eyes found, nothing. The fishman had vanished.

"God damn, where the hell did he go!?" he screamed exasperated, but entirely rhetorically. Nonetheless to his surprise he was given an answer.

"'E went that way 'e did, best be quick though 'e was moving faaast~"

Right under his nose sat a peculiar looking man, he was perched on a bench and struggling to hide his heavy breathing. His skin had a blueish tinge to it and his nose was remarkably long, overshadowing the bush mustache clinging to it's underside. Eyes peered through ill-fitting spectacles and if the swordsman didn't know better he'd swear his grey bushy hair didn't seem to actually fit his head.

"God damn that ugly slime-ball, Beck better not give me any shit for th--"

"He... I mean, 'e was running very fast but to me his face seemed more handsome than ugly." The mustached geezer interjected, as he began gesturing his arms in thinly veiled anger.

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing. I was just saying you best be going or you'll lose him for sure." He was right, the swordsman had already wasted too much time.

"Thanks," Oaklan grunted as he prepared to set out in the direction in which he had been pointed.

[Terminally Chill]

CUUURRRRAAAASSSSSHHHHH!

“GAH!”

An inhuman racket battered the eardrums of the mysterious moustachio and savage swordsman, splintered remnants of the bench spraying across the area. Beck emerged from the all-too-familiar cloud of destruction he and his partner was notorious for causing after rending the bench in two with an explosive axe kick. A vein throbbed in the hunter's head, looking to Oaklan with infinite resentment radiating from his stubbled face.

“WHAT THE HELL?! This guy was trying to help!” came the puzzled and enraged voice of Oaklan, brandishing his Stetson sword menacingly toward his partner.

The moustached man stumbled from the wreckage coughing up dust, bushy facial hair crooked and ridiculous spectacles bent out of shape, a single lens having shattered.

“Yeah, what's the big idea, eh?!” Despite having his identity obvious found out by the drunkard, Rigan stubbornly clung to his alternate identity and straightened his disguise while catching his breath.

“Why are you shootin' the shit instead of catchin' him, dumbass?!” Beck yelled back, matching his partner's intensity with pointing an accusatory finger.

“I ain't shootin' the shit with no one, he told me where that freak-fin fishman went! Now you gonna stand around or we gonna lose him all over again?!”

“... I think 'is name was Flash Fin,” Rigan grumbled, a sweatdrop rolling down his head as Oaklan unknowingly insulted the fishy freerunner once again.

“Why are you still here?!” The alcoholic assailant's finger now turned on the bushy-haired old man, teeth as sharp as daggers.

“I don't know what you're talkin' 'bout,” Rigan withdrew a pipe from his shorts, placing it in between his teeth. “I'm jus' a respectable Windia citizen tryin' to 'ave a bit ov a chat.”

“Yeah. Don't be a dick.”

The poorly-disguised fishman exhaled, but no smoke accompanied his breath.

“THAT PIPE ISN'T EVEN LIT!” Beck's outstretched palm slammed into his face, at the edge of completely losing his cool. Approaching the Red Tide courier, Beck decided to settle the matter once and for all. With a quick swipe of his hand, the boozing bruiser snatched the wig, glasses, and moustache from Rigan to reveal his actual identity to the snowy-haired sellsword.

“Shit...”

“WHAT?!” Oaklan's eyes widened in shock, jaw dropped from the realization of who the old man truly was.

“How are you even surprised?!” Despite being an alcoholic, Beck was beginning to believe Oaklan was the one with the problem functioning in daily life.

“He must be a master of disguise...” The Shandian swordsman replied, giving a sagely nod to accompany the absurd observation.

Beck let out a frustrated sigh, a wreath of smoke surrounding his irritated features. As a test, the drunken desperado replaced the half-assed disguise on Rigan, replacing his former visage as the graying old man with the bushy moustache.

The result was just as Beck had feared.

“Damn it! Which way did HE GO?!”

“... 'E went that way, 'e did.” Rigan replied after a moment of disbelief, pointing in the first random direction his arm mustered to direct the oblivious bounty hunter.

“ENOUGH!”

The lush's leg cleaved through the air with frightening ferocity, demolishing the gray wig as Rigan barely managed to evade the skull-crushing kick. Rigan used the failed strike as an opportunity to escape once more, bolting away with the spectacles and moustache falling away behind him. Beck recovered from the roundhouse kick, teeth grinding together and threatening to split his cigarette in half after the botched attempt to catch the blue-finned blur.

“Not this time...” Beck growled, steps heavy with malice as he walked to the ruined bench Rigan had previously taken refuge on. Hefting one of the bench's halves single-handedly from the street and turning back to the fleeing fishman with smoldering eyes full of genuine hatred. This was the most ridiculous hunt he'd ever undertaken. Locking onto Rigan, Beck launched the make-shift missile toward his target. The bench piece tore through the Milltown streets with deadly force, forcing people to duck in cover for fear of their lives.

The ominous whirring directly behind the fishman drew his attention, but by the time he realized what was happening, it was all over. Rigan let out a loud yelp of pain as the mass of metal and wood smashed into him, carrying him through the wall of yet another unsuspecting merchant's store.

“Bullseye.”

Beck stuck his free hand in his pocket, regaining his thin veil of cool composure. The drunken destroyer began making his way toward the smoldering hole ahead that Rigan was resting in, taking a hefty drink of rum and turning toward Oaklan.

“Can we get the bastard now? This chase is making me lose faith in humanity.”

SPOILER: Click to show

Note: All Oaklan dialogue done by Taro.

[Deleted]

Purupurupuru~

Purupuruuh--

Purupurupuru~

[/right]

The deep, monotonous purr of individual Den Den Mushis filled the massive room. There were easily one hundred of the strange telepathic snails and each time one rang out signalled that it was receiving a message via radio waves. Every ringing snail in the room stalled but for half an instant, but before anyone could react the problem seemed to rectify itself. Each of the sporadically ringing transponder snails was manned, mainly by men, although there were a few women too. These people were not uniform and wore an assortment of various clothing, from tropical shirts to plain pastels and everywhere in-between, the employ of this building were as sporadic as the ringing of the snails. Those of them that seemed unoccupied spoke in hushed voices whilst the rest typed furiously or scribbled notes. Adjacent to the majority of snails were positioned almost identical cream coloured shells, a rare few were instead being worn on the head of those listening to individual snail messages. Shortly after answering the ringing the listeners would press the centre of the shells in, without exception.

“Sir?” asked a sandaled man, his intelligent eyes staring through the thick lenses of his glasses.

“Mm?” came the half attentive prompt as the addressee gave a final glance to the document in his hand before placing it on the table before him.

“The blip wasn’t radio interference but outside interference to the hardware itself.” He paused uneasily for a moment before continuing. “That is to say, there’s some ruckus outside and someone was climbing on the generator... the booster lost power for a moment and so the Den Dens lost signal. Fortunately it would seem no damage was done, b--”

A brief grin flashed across the features of the man in charge, he tipped his orange trimmed fedora revealing his sharp features and slick black hair. It spiked out behind his head, largely contained by the hat, save for two stray threads of hair hanging in front of either ear, both curling forward distinctively.

“Took long enough” he murmured introspectively.

“Pardon sir?” the technician started, but was hushed with a dismissive hand gesture.

“No cause for concern, I’ll deal with this.”

-------------------------------------------------------------

Rigan’s epithet was certainly well earned. Despite only just being able to crawl from what would have been a lesser fishmans grave, the Red Tide courier was still able to clumsily weave around the explosive strike aimed at him by the Shandian sellsword. Twisting his head around to follow the bounty head’s path, Oaklan whirred around ripping his sword from the ground. Beck seemingly fed up of the entire affair was well positioned to prevent their prey from making another easy escape. Flash Fin was certainly showing the signs of the abuse he’d suffered at the hands of the brawling boozer, fear crept onto his features, never was he trapped, there was always an escape.

The two gruff hunters started forward as Rigan tried to drown his panic. He didn’t have it in him to sustain a long chase but he had one last good sprint in him. Crouching down slowly he readied himself to push through the pain, his right leg hurt like hell but as far as he was concerned not running was going to hurt a lot more. At the last moment his fin flashed up from his neck and along the ridge of his back. From a dynamic crouch he burst forward dancing just beyond the reach of one hunter and then the other before flying forward with everything he had. Beck and Oaklan hardly missed a step as they doggedly followed the impressive sprinter; neither was willing to lose sight of their next payday. Nonetheless the Red Tide runner had bought himself the distance he needed, now it was an all or nothing escape and he had to disappear fast.

“Guuh?~”

The impact was like slamming into a brick wall. For a moment the fishman’s legs had continued to run on without him before one seriously strong arm pulled him into the reality of his situation. Seconds ago the street had been empty, but now as clear as day stood a single man who had appeared as if from nowhere. One handed he’d plucked the blurring bounty head from the ground, a balled fight clenched tightly around his shirt and then as if handling a child tossed the four million beri criminal to the hard floor. From somewhere a gun had materialised in exactly the same hand. Cool faced he stared down the barrel, for now uninterested in the two hunters who had just skidded to a halt in front of him.

“Flash Fin Rigan, you’re a hard guy to pin down.” The tone of his voice seemed to carry a genuine complimentary edge to it. “The Red Tide seems to encroach on a new coast every time it comes in and whilst your ideology is not totally without merit, the red waves are beginning to lap at the heels of those who work hard to keep their image spotless. Blood on the shoes is like blood on the hands you see.”

It was half clear that the Red Tide courier did not quite see, but he was beginning to have an inkling.

“Who’s your leader?”

Rigan turned away, his eyes glanced half-heartedly for an escape route but he already knew that to be futile. The enigmatic gunman asked again, the tone remained identical and yet an icy chill ran through the fishman’s body.

“His name’s Eido--” the questioner cocked his pistol.

“The next time you lie to me I’ll put a bullet through your knee. Now, who’s your leader?”

“Sunauto” came the reluctant reply of the defeated messenger.

“Good. Now where is he?” The suited gunner gave the recipient of his interrogation an empathetic smile, it may have even passed for reassuring if not for the fact it came from behind a pistol. “Don’t worry; I just want to send him a message.”

“If you want to get a message to the Captain, why not give it to me?” Rigan grasped hopefully.

“Hey, he ain’t goin’ nowhere, he’s ours – what are you even talkin’ about?” Until now the rookie hunter had kept his lips sealed. Even with his limited capacity to put a picture together, it was becoming clear to Oaklan who this suited man was.

“Unfortunately it seems you have prior business with these two gentlemen, of course if you don’t answer my question, well there’s more than one way to send a message” the mysterious hunter’s sentence carried more than a hint of a threat.

“Alright... alright... he’s at Jacosta currently; it’s where I was going to meet him.”

Nodding the successful interrogator lowered the gun and turned his eye to the two hunters. “This one’s on me - consider it a professional courtesy.”

Oaklan had been listening to the way he’d been talking. It was the same kind of talking Beck sometimes did, it was how people who were trying to be big-shots talked, or so the swordsman thought of it.

“You must be Mantis the Suit; you’re also a tough guy to track down.” Oaklan spoke imitatively but the words didn’t seem to have the desired effect as the man supposedly known as Mantis began to chuckle lightly.

“That’s what they are calling me now, but no... You see people don’t track me down, I track people down.” Pausing Mantis flashed the slightly slow-witted hunter an examining glass.

“Yeah then how com--”

“You have a new name, they’re calling you the Snow Haired Swordsmen, but your name is Oaklan. You met with Beck the fighter, a local street thug who elevated his game and climbed the bounty hunting ladder. Somehow together you managed to best some acquaintances of mine, Deroix and Sendo, the first of whom told you about me. The interesting question is really, what do a drunk and a self-liberated slave want with me?”[/color]

The word hung in the air, it was like a punch to the gut. ‘Slave.’ Oaklan tried not to gape, it was impossible for any one person to know all that about him surely. If that information was all public, he’d be dead or worse by now.

“Asshole,” he managed. [/blockquote][/size]

[Terminally Chill]

“You sure know a lot.” Beck stepped past Oaklan, taking a heavy drag from his cigarette as he took the helm of the conversation. After all, the drunken destroyer was the one intent on finding the shadowy suit and talking to him. Knowledge of Beck's days as a fighter wasn't hard to come by, and his reputation as a drunk was irrefutable. It was the other information that caught Beck's attention.

'A slave...?' The stunned expression on Oaklan's face was the first Beck had seen. The boozer's bloodshot glance only flashed to his partner, immediately returning to sharp features of Mantis the Suit. A vein was pulsing in Beck's forehead. Just because what Mantis said was true, the fighter couldn't stand being talked down to.

“You're actually Mantis, huh?” Beck let out an unimpressed snort of smoke. “I figured you'd be taller. From what I hear, you're a pretty smart guy.” The drunkard's eyes narrowed. “Should be able to figure out pretty quick what we want with you.”

There was an intense silence between the three, the elite hunter making no effort to respond to Beck. Mantis wore an unimpressed look, unfazed by the intimidation lacing each of the lush's words. The slight smirk on the black-suited man's finally parted to give an answer.

“I'm afraid I haven't the faintest idea of what you're talking about.” Mantis cocked his head slightly, answer accompanied by veiled condescension. “Why don't you enlighten me, Beck the Fighter?”

“Tch... Sendo and Deroix? Any guy who is 'acquaintances' with the top two hunters in the West has to play a pretty damn important role in the game. What I can't figure out is what that role is.”

The hammered hunter's tone had cooled down since first engaging the mysterious man. There was still rum-riddled blood boiling beneath his skin, but the air of Beck and Mantis' conversation was one of two businessmen speaking now.

“Know what the good thing about being 'street thug' is, Mantis?” The drunken desperado took a gulp from his treasured bottle. “You learn fast that whoever is the strongest can take what they want from this world. The weak can't change shit.” A childhood of fighting on the streets of West Winchester cycled through Beck's head. “We're all cut-throats, killing each other for the smallest scrap just to get ahead. But you know? Not all of the cut-throats are bad.” The time spent with those who supported him during his fighting career returned to him for a moment, a cast of characters including the now-blacksmith Grenda and the reformed Marine Petty Officer Adelaide. “Some of 'em believe in your strength and stand by you, ready to kill to get all of you ahead.”

Despite the comparatively-calm way in which he spoke, Beck's simmering rage had burned through the remains of his cigarette in a steady orange blaze.

“I can't quite get a read on you though. See, Oaklan n' I are shootin' for the top. So what I want to know...” Beck spat the dead stick of ash onto the ground, simultaneously reaching into his suit jacket for a fresh replacement. “... Is if you're in our corner...” The alcoholic assassin drew and lit the new cigarette with a flick of his hand, taking a satisfactory drag and blowing a thick plume of smoke out.

“... Or competition that we should just crush right now.”

Dangerous embers burned in Beck's intense eyes, grinding his discarded cigarette into the concrete.

[Deleted]

Much of the conversation so far had been lost on Oaklan. He didn’t understand what the Red Tide was, he had absolutely no idea what link Mantis had to the bounty hunting racket and to top it off, he was still reeling from the unwelcomed revelation.

‘Slave’, the word continued to rattle around in his head, it always lived with him – the unwanted guest.

Yet still, there was no mistaking the end of the conversation. They’d tracked down this shadowy figure, peered through the mask of rumour and gazed upon… well, an unremarkable face. What the reason had been, the swordsman had never really known – Beck had said it was important.

‘So it’s either another kinda’ partner, or a fight’ the snow-haired Shandian reached for the hilt of his sword, his blood boiled with an eager anticipation. Something in the cool face of Mantis flickered, unmistakable and yet almost utterly disguised; the turning of a cog, the flicker of a switch, a glimmer in his eye. ‘A killer.’

“Crush me? Oh my…” Mantis cowed, “what is it you would have me do?”

"Tch... I don't want shit from you. But for some reason, you're intent on settin' up shop here in the West. We took care of Deroix and Sendo, so why the hell are you still on our turf?" the blunt boozer responded.

“Trust me I have very little interest in this backwater, you don’t have to worry about your turf. The big kids don’t swim in the baby pool.” The suited speaker shot Beck an icy grin, laden with mockery. “Nonetheless, true enough you did ‘take care’ of Deroix and Sendo… to varying extents.”

The Shandian almost grimaced, simultaneously angry and a little embarrassed. He hadn’t beaten Deroix and he did feel like a child. The whole game of contract killing was a new world to him, amateur, rookie – in essence by comparative experience, he was an infant.

“Of course, thinly veiled by this dull macho façade, what your real question must be is why not me? You’ve already said as much yourself, am I in your corner? Yet if I had sought to be would I not have contacted you? Could it not be possible that I have no desire to affiliate myself with two loose cannons, one of whom has a hunting career that spans only a few months?” Mantis shot the man known simply as ‘the fighter’ a pointed glare, something in his veneered exterior had cracked slightly. It appeared to Oaklan as if his pride had been slightly hurt.

“I will not lie; I actually thought to contact you. There is potential in you, in this partnership even but I thought to myself what is it that I can give you? Every man has a price, if I were to make good use of you I would need to find yours.” Mantis swivelled on his heel; seemingly the sound of his own voice was remedying his mood. “What do you get the man who has everything?” he motioned with his hand as if it was a question, but the swordsman could sense no answer was really desired. “This is not a real dilemma at all. The man who has everything is greedy, he can never have too much – more of the same will do. The real problem arises in the men who have nothing.”

With a triumphant flourish Mantis the Suit confronted the duo, his eyes firstly fixed upon the senior mercenary. “I can see your ambition, Beck the fighter. You want to climb and you think I have the ladder. Continue as you are and make it to the Grand Line and you’ll have no need to track me down.”

“So we did track you down?” Oaklan interjected, catching Mantis off balance.

“No, no, no… I allowed you to –track- me” he corrected hastily.

Furrowing his brow the swordsman paused a moment before pressing on. “So you did contact us?””

A flush of red washed over Mantis’ features, an occurrence that was imaginably rare. “I suppose, in a way” he conceded meekly. He turned his focus to the ex-slave for the first real time. “It isn’t so hard to figure what you want. The wind in your hair, the open sky and so on and so forth. So let me ask you this Oaklan, what is freedom to you?”

“Strength” the sellsword replied without even a second of hesitation.

“An astute answer, so what then is strength?” the way the man spoke made Oaklan feel as if he was being lead, he couldn’t help but half-expect a trap.

After a moment’s thought he gave his verdict, “a sword in the hand” he offered.

“An important form of strength there is no doubt. Yet surely you’ve come to see that not all strength is physical? Power comes in many forms,” he spoke almost seductively. “Wealth, fame, knowledge, contacts – all these things I can offer you, both of you. Make it to the Grand Line and keep making impressive catches and all you have to do is reach out and take them. You can choose to work for me, you can choose at any time to quit. But if you manage to impress me, I shall give you no reason to want to.”

“What’s in this for you?” the ex-slave asked frowning. He’d learned to distrust authoritative figures.

“Nothing, yet” came Mantis’ confusing reply. “I like to think of it as a long term investment. Anyway, think it over, later.” Turning the suited enigma gave a single wave with the back of his hand and proceeded to slowly stroll away.

“I don’t work with weaklings!” Oaklan shouted at Mantis’ back.

“Nor do I…”

The snow haired swordsman grinned.

“Ey-o, what was all that about then?” Rigan asked, once again donning his awful disguise.

“Dunno,” Oaklan shrugged, turning to face Beck.

SPOILER: Click to show

Beck dialogue by Chill (which will always be the case so if done again I will not state this every time. Then only some kind of idiot would do that. :BB

[Terminally Chill]

“STOP TALKING!”

Rigan let out a dismayed cry as Beck's steel heel smashed down onto his neck, the unforgiving street buckling beneath the impact as the brutal ax kick drove the flash fin face-first into the rock-hard surface. The remnants of the fishman's disguise scatted to the air along with a plume of crumbled concrete. Once the debris subsided from the swift and silencing act of violence, Mantis the Suit was already but a flickering shadow in dangerous duo's memory. The enigmatic bounty hunter was gone as quickly as he had been encountered. The blow was partially dealt as a release, to clear Beck's head after the conclusion of the momentous meeting.

Taking a drag from his cigarette, the drunken destroyer's rum-reddened eyes were glazed with thought as he peered at the spot Mantis once stood. The rumored figure the partnered pair had been pursuing since Stetson Island finally appeared before them, but the interaction was as fleeting as the man's existence. The suit's motives remained mysterious, but even the short exchange with Mantis provided a greater sense of clarity to the West's bounty hunting situation. The shadowy assassin laid out a goal for Beck and Oaklan to reach: the Grand Line. The brawling boozer never felt the need to travel to the graveyard sea, but his newly-ignited resolve meant the sea Beck grew up in was now a proving ground.

“Tch, not a fan of charity...” Beck roughly retrieved the unconscious Red Tide courier from the crater. As Mantis had mentioned, Rigan was only in their custody largely thanks to his intervention. If the suited enigma hadn't appeared, the lightning-fast fishman could have very well escaped the loose cannons' grasps.

“But it looks like we blew most of our last haul in this shitty farm town,” Beck admitted, a slight hint of embarrassment in his voice as he shamelessly accepted the “professional courtesy” from Mantis. After all, chasing Rigan around the city of windmills was too much trouble to deny the four-million beri.

“Well, you heard that shady bastard...” The drunken desperado gave Rigan's motionless body a rough tug, drawing the glances of baffled Milltown citizens as he dragged him across the street. “Gotta keep bringing in bounties.”

Chugging the last of his rum, Beck looked with disappointment to the empty bottle before discarding it carelessly behind him. The bottle nearly nailed a random Windia passerby before shattering against the street. The hammered hunter ignored the man's protests, walking beside his unlikely partner toward their next ridiculous and destructive endeavor.

“Gonna need to make a pub stop, though.”

[/b]

~ Fin.[/blockquote]