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A Letter from Edward Teach to Bartholomew Roberts.
The restaurant named El Paraíso did not live up to its name.
Then again, few things ever did in Havana.
Cutting corners was to be expected, and so were the grime and dust.
But the thugs? The spiderwebs? The terrible coffee? It was simply… impressive.
Nevertheless, Francis wasn’t there to sample local delicacies, diverting his attention back to the matter at hand.
The fugitive couldn’t deny that the police officer was as shady as they came, especially considering his calm demeanor.
Few ever were that calm. And none carried the best intentions.
Especially not you, Xavier.
Francis cursed himself for using that monstrosity’s pseudonym, as it essentially meant agreeing to play his game.
No, he was Rumpelstiltskin.
And I’m going to forget it all once I become a Deacon.
Francis couldn’t help but sigh when remembering the deal. It was good, all things considered, but was it truly worth the cost?
His next Advancement Ritual would leave him with several blank spots. Spots that would’ve otherwise provided leverage.
No. Don’t be moronic. The invocation was a desperate measure.
Even if invoking Rumpelstiltskin’s name worked, he would never do it again.
Not when the consequences were striking a new deal in mere days.
Francis wished that were the end of it, but the thought spiral left one question unanswered: what would become of his memories about Read?
Would he assume he got aid from a mysterious figure? Or would he assume he actually assassinated him? The former was inconvenient; the latter was a death wish.
He didn’t survive as long as he did by being arrogant, and he wasn’t planning to.
Quite the headache I’m giving myself.
Luckily, the fugitive was spared further pondering, as his new partner in crime appeared.
“Greetings,” the officer said as he took a seat. “I hope I didn’t leave you waiting too long.”
His grin was insufferable, but Francis kept the thought to himself. “Not at all, not like I have much to do.”
“Aside from terrorizing the local fauna, that is.”
“Did you just call gangs the local fauna?” Francis said, amazed at the audacity. Even senior officers were bound to have a measure of respect. Not the man facing him, apparently.
“I did,” the man affirmed his stance. “Because that’s what they are.”
Francis raised a brow. “What if I were one of them?”
His reply made the officer snort. “Please. With that look of yours? You’d be a gang boss’ concubine in a week.”
Francis wanted to take offense. But the man had a point. As things currently stood, he looked androgynous enough that those people wouldn’t mind.
The thought made him shiver, and so he reverted to what was relevant. “So why strike a deal with me?”
“Simple,” the officer explained. “You seem competent. Far too competent for a Havana rat.”
“Havana rat?”
“That’s what we call low-ranking goons, anyway,” the officer explained without a care in the world. “Besides, what kind of goon has such healing?”
And here I thought I was subtle enough.
Francis wished for a moment to gather his thoughts, and it mercifully came in the form of a waiter. “Good morning, what can I get you?”
“Some Ropa Vieja will do,” the officer replied politely. “What about you, friend?”
The beef-based dish was terribly heavy for the morning hours, but the officer didn’t seem to mind one bit.
Still, Francis wasn’t going to be outdone. “A Tequila bottle, please.”
“What?” the waiter said in fright. “Sir, it’s eight in the morning.”
“And I need me my Tequila,” Francis replied.
The waiter hesitated for a moment before ultimately complying. “Very well.”
“Confirming my theory, I take it?” the officer said to Francis as the male waiter walked away.
“More or less.”
Actions spoke louder than words, and a display of arrogance was worth more than a thousand explanations.
Francis’ logic in that moment was rather straightforward: arrogance drew attention to character, while explanations drew attention to finer details.
“More competent than I thought,” the officer said with a smile. “Perhaps you are the right fit for the job.”
Of course, another job.
The Saint Agnes Archipelago native didn’t shy away from labeling himself a mercenary, but his workload was certainly unenviable. “Specifics?”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Before that,” the officer replied. “Mind exchanging pleasantries?”
The reply genuinely shocked Francis. Not because they waited for so long, as it was to be expected, but because he barely crafted a persona.
Male, English in appearance, flamboyant, ambiguous background.
“Is that mistrust I sense?” the officer joked.
No, idiot. My head is worth more than your estate.
“Kai,” Francis replied at last. “Kai Falmouth.”
The pseudonym was far from the craftiest, but it had to do.
“Of course your name is Kai.”
“Pardon?”
“I spoke in jest,” the officer replied. “You can call me Pierre.”
Suddenly, Francis’ curiosity was piqued. “A Frenchman in Havana? Quite the story you have, I bet.”
“To say the least,” Officer Pierre replied with a sigh. “That’s more or less why I need your services.”
“Do tell,” Francis said as he leaned back.
The moment of clarity was interrupted, however, as the pair heard a slap in the distance, followed by shattering plates.
“You’re serving a pig?” a thug said to the waiter from earlier. “Are you serious?”
The scene raised a few questions inside Francis’ head, but it wasn’t the time to ponder.
It was time to act.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the fugitive rose to his feet before approaching the thug. “Not regulars here, I take it?”
His small stature and youthful appearance must’ve struck a nerve, as the thug instantly prepared to strike.
At least before a wave of Intimidation hit him.
The Havana rat fell to his knees as the air shifted, leading the man to raise his head in disbelief.
Francis could’ve applied enough Intimidation to knock him cold, but he was in the business of leaving impressions. “Speaking of pigs, did you know that we’re similar in taste?”
The man’s shock only intensified. “What?”
“Would you like to give it a try?” Francis replied, a maniacal smirk creeping in.
The man was evidently dense, but the threat was mercifully understood. “No, please. I have two kids.”
Francis slapped the man, causing his face to scrape the wooden floor. “Then get out of here before I stuff your mouth.”
The scene was humiliating, but what was he to do against a Submerged?
Naturally, the man complied, walking away with difficulty.
The few men observing must have been his companions. Yet, not a word was uttered.
“Don’t worry about the damages,” Francis said to the waiter as he passed him. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Didn’t know you were fond of the constabulary,” Officer Pierre said, tone impressed.
“Far from it,” Francis replied as he took a seat once more. “I simply detest bullies.”
“What if the man had a point, though?” Pierre said. “What if we are the bad guys?”
“Right,” Francis mocked. “Slapping a helpless waiter is quite the resistance.”
Whatever the test was, Francis must have passed, as Pierre looked delighted. “Dangerous and principled. Lucky me.”
Oh no. Who am I going to kill this time?
For the first time since they met, the officer appeared… more human.
“Are you familiar with Havana’s gangs?” Pierre asked, voice growing heavy.
“No,” Francis replied flatly, matching his seriousness.
“Well,” the man began explaining. “We got The Disciples, The Sorrows, The Heretics, and 12th Street.”
One of them rang a bell. “Come to think of it, a guy I burned to a crisp mentioned something about 12th Street.”
“A guy you burned to a crisp.”
“Yeah,” Francis replied calmly. “I burned a few dozen; you should try it sometimes.”
The fugitive lamented not acting in such a manner sooner, as the faces people gave were always delightful.
It takes a faceless to gather a symphony of faces, I see.
“No matter,” Pierre said, oblivious to the terrible humor. “We’re in 12th Street territory now, that’s why.”
“Mhm,” Francis said. “So much for the constabulary.”
Pierre looked defensive at that. “It’s not that simple! Our city is getting flooded by Submerged regularly.”
“Submerged that are as good as dead if found,” Francis replied in realization.
“Precisely, that’s why gangs have us outnumbered in that regard.”
“Why not organize a massive cleansing operation?” Francis asked.
It was a reasonable question, all things considered. The city’s Inquisitors were formidable, and so was the Iberian Grand Fleet.
“We can raid every nook and cranny, yes,” the officer replied. “But how happy do you think the populace would be?”
“Fair enough,” Francis replied with a shrug. “Anyway, what were you going to say?”
Pierre must have been annoyed, but to his credit, he maintained a calm demeanor. “The Heretics operate an underground fighting arena. I want you to find a way to go there.”
“And compete for prizes?” Francis joked.
“And burn it to the ground.”
Dear me, the man is serious.
“Can I at least ask why?” Francis asked, adjusting his tone.
“The lowlifes did the unspeakable to my sister before murdering her. I want every single one of them dead,” Pierre explained bluntly.
In that moment, Francis felt like an absolute moron for the constant jest, even if he had no way of knowing.
“Your first few years in Havana, I take it?” Francis replied in understanding.
“More or less,” Pierre said with a deep sigh. “I tried to investigate the matter. But the police force forced me to drop it, as the evidence was lacking.”
“They have a powerful backer, I take it?”
“Try a marine vice admiral,” Pierre said.
“Why would a vice admiral control a gang?” Francis replied, dumbfounded. “Aren’t they paid enough?”
“These gangs make in a day what a vice admiral makes in a year,” the officer explained. “So no, he’s not. Not conventionally, anyway.”
The revelation naturally raised another question. “Why is the government doing nothing about it?”
“Because controlled opposition is better than a hostile one.”
Up to date with his political theory, I see.
Iberia’s justice system had failed him, and he had to serve it all the same. Years of quiet resentment, despair, grief. Francis couldn’t help but pity him.
“I’ll do it,” Francis said without a moment’s hesitation.
His assertiveness surprised Pierre, who leaned forward attentively. “We haven’t even discussed your payment.”
“Couldn’t care less,” Francis replied. “I’m doing this because it’s what’s right.”
He then handed the man the artifact he snatched the night before.
The sudden change in attitude must have been overwhelming, as the officer took a moment to process it all.
“There really are good people left in this world,” he said at last, voice cracking.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Francis said. “People like me are simply a lesser evil.”
“Evil or not,” Pierre said, tears seemingly on the verge of falling. “I sincerely thank you.”
There was no need to thank him, however. As decapitating a major gang was the surest way to reach stardom.
A stardom Francis desperately needed in that moment, lest the girls faced the Inquisition’s wrath.
***
By the time the meeting was over, Francis was left with one lingering problem.
He was weak.
Not in a metaphysical sense, naturally. He simply… couldn’t land a punch for dear life.
It wouldn’t have mattered under normal circumstances, as his Stanzas were enough to raise a town. But he was to compete in a fighting arena, making all his abilities inconvenient.
If only I could use my bodyguard instead.
The fugitive hadn’t met the bodyguard Beatriz assigned him, but he knew for a fact that he was watching.
“Assuming it’s not a she,” Francis mumbled as he walked Havana’s broken cobbles.
Tequila in hand, Francis wondered what he should do until nighttime, as that’s when the underworld was the most active.
If he wanted to partake in the festivities, he had to acquire an Untether artifact; otherwise, he might as well pretend to be an entertainer.
That raised a different question: How could he possibly afford a Deacon-grade artifact?
The man never had to buy an artifact, much less a rare one. His 100 silver might help, but thinking it enough was pure delusion.
After all, he sold a Supplicant-grade artifact for 250 silver.
With Havana’s streets getting louder, Francis approached his apartment building in haste. An attempt to find a quieter place to ponder his predicament.
As things stood, the mercenary had a Deacon-grade Evasion ring, an Acolyte-grade Ruin flintlock, and a dubious shapeshifting artifact.
Some were more relevant than others. All were indispensable.
Unless.
Whatever ability his Advancement Ritual bestowed, it was bound to come in handy in the upcoming mission, making acquiring it first a priority.
And with Rumpelstiltskin’s help, success was essentially a cold bath away.
At the cost of my individuality, naturally.
With renewed vigor, Francis approached his door.
Then Premonition hit.
What now?
Letting consequences wither and rot, Francis activated his Observation, and sure enough, someone was inside his room. And judging by the distance, they were sitting on his bed.
The man was half tempted to enter through the window, but that would have attracted too much attention.
Besides, it didn’t fit his new persona.
And so Francis unlocked the door, then kicked it open.
The stranger didn’t wait.
As soon as their eyes met, she lunged forward.
Francis recognized those eyes.
Except this time, her blue orbs lacked glimmer.
They were akin to a storm.
And if he knew anything about that storm, he knew that the woman had the physique of an Untether Deacon.
Oh, Leonie. What happened to you?