Heading North

"North" is a direction, not a destination. Anyone who tells you otherwise has never tried to find a stolen ship on the open ocean by following a vague point on a compass.

For the first few days after Baratie, the Big Top was a powder keg of bruised egos and blind guessing. We were supposedly heading North, chasing after a stripped tug-boat containing three idiots who were, in turn, chasing a big-titty thief who had stolen their ship.

We didn't give a damn about the thief, or the caravel she'd stolen. But we cared deeply about the rubber brat chasing her. Finding the navigator meant finding Straw Hat. Every officer had a different theory on where this runaway girl was actually heading, and by extension, where we needed to set our trap.

Buggy was convinced she’d doubled back South and West. "Loguetown!" he declared, stabbing a map with a dagger. "It’s the biggest black market in the East Blue! She’s fencing Straw Hat's ship to buy Grand Line gear, I guarantee it! We catch her there, string her up, and wait for the rubber brat to walk right into his own execution!"

Cabaji sneered, adjusting his scarf. "Please, Captain. A woman like that? She went South to the Okyot Kingdom. She’ll bat her eyes, scam some fat, gilded noble out of his fortune, and live in luxury. We should intercept her there and use her as bait."

"They said North, you absolute morons," Alvida snapped, leaning over the table, her massive breasts nearly suffocating the map. "We go North until we hit land, we find the thief, and we use her to break Straw Hat."

Mohji just kept feeding Richie and pretending he knew how to read the clouds.

I mostly sat back, drank my rum, and let them argue. It’s one of the perks of being me. Even recognized as an officer, my earrings made it entirely normal for me to just fade into the background when the decibel levels got too high.

It also didn't hurt that I had a literal fanclub among the lower decks now.

Ever since the blowout at the Welcome House back in Syrup Village, a good chunk of the crew looked at me like I was a god. Specifically, the half-dozen scrawny gunners and deckhands who were still riding the high of getting their dicks sucked by the Iron Mace herself. During my little 'sideshow' on that velvet couch, I'd used a Normality to trigger Alvida's hidden bimbo-switch, turning the terrifying pirate queen into a giggly, cock-drunk slut offering her mouth to anyone in the room. The guys who took advantage of that generous window were fiercely, desperately loyal to me now, always hoping I'd turn the captain into a public playground again.

Of course, they were also firmly on Alvida's permanent shit-list.

The second she had cum on that couch and her brain rebooted back to its normal, murderous baseline, she remembered exactly whose cheap, unwashed cocks had been in her mouth. Those poor bastards lived in constant terror of her now, dodging her mace on a daily basis. But surprisingly? She didn't hold it against me. If anything, she liked it. In her twisted, vain pirate logic, I was her man. A true alpha who could completely dominate her and put her in her place whenever I wanted. She found my absolute control over her incredibly hot.

Which meant when I wasn't fading into the background, I was fading into Alvida.

Thanks to a well-placed normality on our very first day aboard, Buggy had happily surrendered the spacious captain’s quarters to us. We made use of that massive, velvet-draped bed every single day. Stepping away from the screeching clowns to bury myself deep between Alvida’s impossibly soft, thick thighs, feeling her flawless Slip-Slip skin slide perfectly against mine while her massive tits bounced wildly beneath me... it was the only thing keeping me sane on this floating circus. She was a demanding, insatiable goddess in the sheets, and I was more than happy to spend hours worshiping her perfect body.

To keep morale from completely cratering while we sailed aimlessly, Buggy ordered the crew to start running their circus routines on the Big Top’s main deck stage. It was standard pirate-clown nonsense: juggling knives, breathing fire, a little unicycle acrobatics, and the Superhuman Domingos, a trio of fiercely loyal, muscle-bound fellows; doing their honest, simple strongman routines to the cheers of the crew.

I was sitting in the bleachers, nursing a drink, when I noticed the guy crouching two rows down.

He was a scruffy, wide-eyed pirate. He wasn't watching the stage. Instead, he had both his hands raised, each wearing a crudely stitched sock-puppet with button eyes.

"Terrible form," the left puppet, which had a yarn mustache, hissed in a high-pitched squeak. "No emotional weight behind the juggling!"

"I know, right?" the right puppet, some type of lizard; replied in a gravelly whisper. "Absolute garbage. Mort's avant-garde tragedy would have killed in this timeslot. The people are begging for it. Listen to them."

"We want Mort's show! We want Mort's show!" both puppets began chanting softly, looking around as if trying to incite a riot among the totally apathetic pirates sitting nearby.

I blinked, taking a slow sip of my rum. I leaned over to Mohji, who was scratching Richie’s ears in the aisle next to me. "What is his deal?"

Mohji glanced at Mort, then sighed. "Oh, that’s Mort. He’s... not all there. He genuinely thinks no one can tell his hands are inside the puppets. Thinks they’re independent critics. He’s trying to create a 'groundswell of grassroots support' to take over the entertainment committee."

"Right," I muttered. Normal pirate stuff.

Our first real geographical hurdle happened about a week in, having briefly sighted the Straw Hat's chasing ship to confirm we had it right.

Cabaji had the spyglass out. "Islands ahead, Captain. Looks like the Conomi Archipelago."

Buggy, who had been loudly boasting to a captive audience about his upcoming execution of Luffy, suddenly stopped. His floating hands twitched, zipping back to his wrists. He marched over, snatched the spyglass, took one look at the distant shore, and went rigid.

"Hard to starboard!" Buggy shrieked, his voice cracking. "Spin the wheel! Catch the wind! We’re going East! Wide!"

"What?" Alvida frowned, her perfectly manicured hands resting on her hips. "Why? If the thief went North, she might be there. It’s a straight shot."

"Because the currents there are... terrible for the ship’s paint job!" Buggy lied, sweating profusely. "Very corrosive waters! Flashy pirates do not sail into corrosive waters! Helmsman, steer us wide!"

The pirate at the wheel obeyed without question, hauling the heavy wooden spokes hard to the right. I just frowned into my cup. I leaned over to Alvida, who was watching Buggy’s panic with a mixture of amusement and disdain.

"What’s his problem?" I muttered.

She smirked, trailing a perfectly manicured nail down my chest. "Arlong. You know that fish-man pirate. Nasty piece of work with a bounty higher than the clown's. He controls the Conomi Archipelago. Buggy would rather swallow a cannonball than admit he's terrified of another pirate, but if that thief led Straw Hat into Arlong's waters, the captain is more than happy to let the fish-man do our dirty work and kill the rubber brat for us... Coward."

Enough said.

I'd heard the rumors about Arlong's crew-monsters who could flip houses and tear a man limb from limb with just their teeth. Alvida might have been completely blasé about the threat, her absolute confidence radiating off her, but was perfectly fine not testing my normality against a gang of racist sea-monsters.

Of course, Alvida's comment set off a shouting match as Buggy took issue but eventually we steered wide East. And that's exactly when the ocean decided to punish us.

We hit a migratory mating ball of Giant Horned Striped-Eels.

If you haven’t seen one, be grateful. It’s exactly what it sounds like: about ten thousand massive, slimy, aggressively horny sea creatures churning the ocean into a whirlpool of bad decisions. We couldn’t sail out. We couldn’t row out. For three agonizing, nauseating days, we were dragged wildly off course to the North-East, spinning in slow circles while the crew frantically used poles, swords, the Domingos' raw muscle, and Buggy’s detached limbs to shove giant, thrashing eels away from the hull.

By the time the eels finally finished their business and dispersed into the deep, the crew was half-dead from exhaustion.

Later that evening, the sea finally calm, I was sitting alone at a table in the mess hall, eating a plate of salted pork and enjoying the quiet.

Suddenly, from behind a stack of hardtack crates opposite my table, two sock-puppets slowly popped up.

"Can you believe that garbage on Tuesday?" the mustachioed puppet squeaked, gesturing wildly with a floppy cloth arm. "The fire-breather almost torched the rigging."

"Hack material," the gravel-voiced puppet agreed, nodding solemnly. "A symptom of a dying artistic vision. If they'd just let Mort stage his one-man socio-political critique of the Marine tax code, morale would be through the roof."

"So true. Mort is a visionary."

I just took another bite of my pork, chewing slowly while Mort, who was clearly crouching behind the crate, the top of his bandana just barely visible; continued performing his private puppet-show to an audience of me and a barrel of pickled cabbage.

Damn, I needed a vacation.

Leaving Mort to his delusions, I walked into the navigation room and checked the charts to see exactly where the eel-drift had dumped us. My heart did a little skip.

We were far North and East of Conomi. Very far. And right there, sitting like a jewel on the map, a mere day's sail away from our current coordinates, was Mirror Ball Island.

Even I’d heard about the dance capital of the East Blue. A neon-lit paradise of high fashion, endless parties, absurdly beautiful people, and the kind of high-class degeneracy I desperately needed after spending two weeks dodging horny sea-eels and listening to sock-puppet theater.

I really wanted to go. And you know what? There’s no reason I couldn’t.

I walked out onto the deck. Buggy was snapping at people, his makeup smudged. Alvida was looking down at her scuffed boots and sea-salt encrusted coat with murderous intent.

I tapped my gold N-shaped earrings, feeling that familiar, warm hum of power settle over my vocal cords.

"You know," I said, my voice carrying cleanly over the groans of the crew. "It's completely normal for a pirate crew of our unmatched flashiness and beauty to take a detour to Mirror Ball Island to recuperate. Actually, it'd be weird if we didn't restock our wardrobes and show off our superiority at the dance capital of the sea before hunting down that Straw Hat guy."

The effect washed over the deck like a cool breeze. The arguing stopped.

Buggy blinked, rubbing his chin. "You know... Tsujo is right! How can the great Buggy the Clown arrive to execute his nemesis looking anything less than spectacularly flashy?! Mirror Ball Island is the only place with fabrics loud enough for me!"

Alvida ran a hand through her hair, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her lips. "A kingdom of fashion... and pampering. Yes. I think a day at the spas and boutiques is exactly what I need. Anyone who gets in my way is getting crushed."

"To Mirror Ball Island!" the crew cheered, suddenly energized by the absolute normalcy of the suggestion. Even Mort popped up from the hatch, both sock-puppets throwing their little arms in the air in celebration.

I smiled, leaning back against the mast as Cabaji got our heading adjusted. It was perfect. We’d get some R&R, I’d get to see the famous dance competitions, and with any luck, we’d pick up a fresh trail on Straw Hat. After all, trouble seemed to follow that kid everywhere.