Her first mate

Joana turned toward the rustling trees, her dagger already warm in her palm. Her stance, newly instinctive, low and lithe. The sand beneath her feet no longer felt foreign-it was hers.

Then: a voice, low and sharp, cutting through the salt-slick air.

“Captain Belinda? You alright? I lost sight of you for not even ten breaths.”

She blinked, tension draining just a notch. Belinda? Well, that answers one question. The man emerging from the jungle was tall, scarred, and golden-skinned, hair pulled into a topknot, a worn sash slung across a muscular chest. His eyes swept over her as if to confirm she wasn’t wounded, though they lingered briefly on her bare collarbones, the slash of toned midriff beneath the loose linen wrap she wore.

She recognized him immediately, though she’d never seen him before.

Kenji.
First Mate. Trusted since childhood.
Loyal to a fault. Excellent at cutting throats.

The memory clicked into place, slotted by the RAC like a puzzle piece she hadn’t known was missing.

“I’m fine,” Joana/Belinda said, surprised at how raspy and unpolished her voice sounded now. The words came out in a crisp dialect she didn’t remember learning-yet spoke flawlessly.

Kenji’s brow furrowed.

“You were standing near the shrine when the wind turned. Then, gone.”

Joana/Belinda dusted sand off her thighs, fingers brushing the curve of her hips-smaller now, more angular. Her flat chest ached faintly, like a ghost of the woman she’d been moments ago. She tied the dagger into her sash with practiced ease.

“Just needed air,” she said, testing the lie. It landed clean.

He eyed her a second longer, then nodded.

“The crew’s restless. It’s been three days ashore, and the tide’ll favor us come nightfall. T’won’t be long before spirits run low and mutiny looks tempting.”

A grin tugged at her lips. They won’t dare, she thought. Not with the reputation she’d embedded.

Still, the smart thing to do was to reorient quickly. This body, this role-it came with weight. Expectations. Power. Enemies. She had no intention of fumbling.

She flicked her fingers toward the trees. “Lead on.”

They walked in silence up the embankment, through swaying palm fronds and brine-soaked air, until the beach widened into a bustling temporary camp.

Makeshift canvas tents. Crates of plunder half-buried in sand. A long canoe, oars strapped like bones across the ribs of its hull. At least a dozen crewmembers scattered-some sharpening blades, others dozing in hammocks strung between leaning palms. They barely glanced up as she passed. But a few did-and she caught it. The flicker of tension. Fear. Respect. Lust. They knew who she was.

Good.

Kenji ducked under one of the tents and tossed her a curved flask.

She caught it easily. Drank. Rum, laced with something spiced and earthy.

“Situation?”

He tilted his head. “No sign of the northern ship we were hunting. But we picked off a patrol canoe yesterday. No survivors. The merchant fleet’s still camped past the reef. Two nights, maybe three before they move.”

“And us?”

“We’re fed, armed. Spirits are high. But if we don’t get blood soon…” His gaze flicked toward the more rowdy end of camp. “…they’ll find a different outlet.”

Joana/Belinda raised an eyebrow. “How many?”

“Twenty-one. Nineteen loyal.” A pause. “The other two just think they aren’t.”

A grin curled across her lips again. Ruthless. Efficient. “Then maybe we remind them who they serve.”

Later, in a tent overlooking the darkening shoreline, Joana/Belinda sat cross-legged beside a flickering oil lamp. Her body buzzed with heat from the drink and adrenaline from the walk through camp. Her new hands were scarred and nimble. Her feet bare and caked in warm sand. Everything about her felt real. So real.

But there was one thing she still didn’t trust to memory.

She reached into her satchel and whispered: “Anchor.”

The RAC shimmered into existence between her fingers.

Its screen lit instantly-responsive, as if eager to serve.

Quantum Anchor: Dr. Joana Kekyll (Primary User)
Quantum Target: Captain Belinda of The Scarlett Cuirass / Timeline Sub-Variant: Strand-D8M8
Duration: 72 hours remaining
Subject Origin: Alternate-life fork (Not inhabited / No replacement)

Her heart skipped.

Three days. That was her window before reversion or reassignment. Plenty to explore. Too short to waste.

She tapped open the disguise menu, brows furrowed. Carrying a high-tech device in a world of rum and superstition was asking for trouble. She selected from the dropdown options:

[RAC Appearance Filter: ACTIVE]
→ Appearance disguise: Seashell Pendant
→ Activation trigger: Palm contact + whisper

The RAC shimmered, folding in on itself like a conjured dream, collapsing into a polished scallop-shell pendant threaded onto a dark cord. She slung it over her neck, where it settled just between her collarbones, light as glass, unassuming. She would have to whisper her commands, but that was a tradeoff she could live with for now.

She breathed in.

Now, she could be what the world expected: the pirate princess. Young, lithe, dangerous, untouchable.