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A Letter to Edward Teach.
Francis wanted to leave his uncomfortable rooftop, but Havana didn’t cooperate.
With officers filling every nook and cranny of the streets, waiting until nightfall was inevitable, not optional.
And so he waited.
Too bad I can’t heal the soreness using Rejuvenation.
The time would’ve proven useful for pondering, had the scorching heat not been a distraction. The only thing that could’ve made the situation worse was the humidity. Something that Havana contained in plenty.
This is the last time I listen to the authorities.
His prison break left much to be desired in terms of information. Was Valentina safe? Did they issue a bounty? Would they pursue the matter further? It was overwhelming. Far too overwhelming for someone enduring Havana’s heat.
Thankfully, every tunnel had light at the end of it. And his was no exception, even if it was the lack thereof.
Quite the poet I am.
With visibility out of the way, Francis swiftly began thinking of the way to reach the ground. Jumping would’ve been the surest method, but a Deacon’s healing was bound to draw the Inquisition, leaving him with a slow but covert descent.
Each jump intensified the fugitive’s anxiety, especially when half the officers in the district must’ve been looking for him.
Francis lamented the possibility of encountering one, as that would’ve meant shooting them on sight. He even grabbed his flintlock the moment he heard a stir, but luckily, it amounted to nothing.
The sounds intensified the closer Francis got to the ground, but he tried his best not to activate Observation, as that would only mark his location.
“Stop!” Francis heard abruptly, sending a shiver down his spine. “Weren’t you going to study? Do you want to get kicked out of the free school?”
Oh. Just a concerned father.
An eternity later, Francis reached the ground without an altercation, sparing him the moral dilemma of killing an innocent man for his own survival.
What he wasn’t spared, however, were common thugs.
“Fancy clothes you got there,” a man circled by half a dozen said abruptly. “Mind sharing with the rest of us?”
Shame on me for expecting anything else.
The line was utterly juvenile. The fact that it must have worked on some poor souls made Francis even more indignant. But that was hardly the most important thing in that moment.
“Please,” Francis replied. “I just want to go on my way.”
“You can,” the thug said, before revealing a dagger. “Once you hand over your things.”
Regrettably, none of Francis’ weapons were conventional, forcing him to choose the lesser evil.
Flames were loud, and so was his flintlock. Intimidation was a curious middle ground—it was an Acolyte Stanza, after all. Healing afterward was an option, but the ripples would shine like a lighthouse in the dark.
Alternatively. I can mention a certain individual.
“I really don’t want to leave Miss Stacey waiting,” Francis said as he approached the opposite side of the alley.
“That a bluff?” the leader of the group said, indignantly.
“No,” Francis replied as he continued walking. “She genuinely wouldn’t appreciate tardiness.”
The lowlife replied by rushing Francis alongside his goons.
So much for diplomacy.
Left with no other choice, Francis grabbed his flintlock and shot the leader in the stomach.
The impact pulverized half of the area, causing the man to fall at once.
To their credit, the man’s subordinates instantly understood the futility of an escalation, leading them to bolt.
And so did Francis, disappearing into the shadows as the thugs fled.
***
One would’ve expected a barber shop to be empty by sunset. Yet, Francis was hit with liveliness the moment he opened the door.
The patrons gazed, as they always did, the moment he entered. But thankfully, none uttered a word.
Not a wanted poster yet, at least.
“Greetings,” Francis said flatly before taking a seat to wait for his turn.
“Greetings,” a few patrons replied.
The lot then returned to their chatter.
And of course, he was the subject matter.
“Say. How do you think the lad killed Read?” one of the patrons said to another.
“Drown me if I know!” the man replied. “Wasn’t he one of Blackbeard’s most powerful lieutenants or something?”
Fascinating diction, I must say.
It was a valid question, however. Such assassinations were seldom carried out by no-name pirates. And it was even rarer for said pirates to simply… vanish.
Yet there he was, waiting for a haircut.
I suppose divine intervention does simplify matters.
“You’re missing the point!” a third man added. “If someone wanted him dead, then the Pirate Kings are closer to war than ever.”
“Please!” the first patron said. “Who could challenge Blackbeard?”
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
“Every can,” yet another man said. “He’s the second most powerful Pirate King, isn’t he?”
“You moron,” the first man replied. “They were seen sailing together weeks ago. Why would they turn on one another?”
“Besides,” he added. “It was Yves Saint Agnes who pulled the trigger, not Every.”
Coming to terms with the ridiculous name was harder than ever, but Francis kept it to himself.
“That Yves fellow is pretty impressive,” one of the barbers said. “To think that he killed a Pirate Warlord before even getting a bounty.”
To Francis’ surprise, the conversation was slightly illuminating. Some of the information shared might have been common knowledge to those in Havana. But for a newcomer, he might as well have been handed gold.
Well, silver.
“Heavens above, must you speak of such matters?” a patron getting a haircut said abruptly.
Francis expected the others to lash out at the man. Yet none spoke for a while.
“Sorry, officer,” the first man said at last. “We just got carried away.”
Officer?
“Don’t,” the officer said sternly. “Not when I’m here.”
The atmosphere quickly grew somber as the half-dozen men attempted to discuss something more lighthearted.
And failed miserably.
“Did you hear? That Stacey lass is making quite the fuss.”
Here we go again.
“No kidding,” the first man said. “She absorbed three gangs in a week. That’s insane!”
“I heard one of her goons blew Pepe’s head to bits,” one of the strangers added.
“You heard right,” the officer said, mercifully sparing them a tantrum. “Whatever her goal was, she overachieved.”
“How so?” the barber shaving the officer’s beard said.
“The two other gangs yielded without a fight after hearing about the incident,” the officer explained.
The scene was genuinely astonishing to Francis. The men could’ve talked about anything. Yet there they were, discussing his feats across multiple islands.
And it brought him no joy.
His Yves identity already got a 10,000 silver bounty, while his Edmond one was next. Even his real identity might have already been compromised, for all he knew.
Not long after, the officer was done with his cut, forcing Francis to angle himself in a way that obscured half his face. Additionally, he made sure to avoid eye contact, as it would instantly force the officer to study his face.
The ordeal must have taken seconds. But to the fugitive, it might as well have been minutes.
“I’ll leave you to it then,” the officer said as he handed the barber a bronze coin, before going on his way.
Good riddance.
“What was that for?” the first man said as he eyed the door. “You’d think you colored his hair.”
“Generosity, Jose,” the barber replied flatly. “It’s about time you learn what that is.”
“Nonsense!” Jose replied. “I can barely feed my kids!”
“As if anyone told you to have five of them,” one of the strangers said, before half the shop burst out laughing.
The balding Jose looked on the verge of punching someone. But he kept it to himself.
“What about you, lad?” the stranger said to Francis. “Are you new around these parts?”
“You can say that,” Francis replied bluntly. The less they knew, the better.
“Promises of riches and glory brought you here, I take it?” Jose said, trying to reassert himself.
“No,” Francis said. “I was just bored.”
“Some deep pockets you got!” Jose said with a snort. “I wish I could afford to go to another island out of boredom.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to learn the trade first,” Francis said as he locked eyes with him.
“That being?” Jose replied smugly.
“Take a guess,” Francis said, before flashing his flintlock.
Silence ensued.
The approach might’ve been less than ideal. But it stopped further questioning.
And that was enough.
“Anyone want to get a cut next?” a seemingly unpopular barber asked.
“I’ll come,” Francis said after none of the patrons replied.
As the shop was rather modest, it took the fugitive mere seconds to reach the chair. Something that worked in his favor, as every second counted.
“So, what do you want to get?” the barber asked Francis.
“Shave the whole thing.”
“Your hair, you mean?”
“Everything,” Francis replied flatly, catching the barber by surprise.
“Both hair and beard?” he asked in puzzlement. The combination wasn’t rare in the slightest, but the barber probably figured that Francis looked far better with flowing hair.
Sadly, the cut had nothing to do with aesthetics. “Eyebrows too.”
The barber appeared even more perplexed, but he ultimately complied.
Such a move was evidently not enough. But by removing those identifiers, Francis was mostly safe.
Mostly.
By the time the barber finished his job, Francis looked indistinguishable.
Saying that he never shaved his head wasn’t even an exaggeration, as he spent most of his life with a full head of hair in one way or another.
But that wasn’t the case anymore.
The bald head, clean-shaven face, and missing eyebrows made him look like an aquatic species. And knowing their world, there probably were humans who appeared that way naturally.
The bounty hunter half-expected the patrons to exchange mocking gazes, even voice their thoughts. Yet, there was nothing.
Perhaps I should flash my flintlock more often.
With little left to do, Francis put ten bronze on the table, instructed the barber to give two, and gave the rest to the other equally, then left.
Buying their silence wasn’t exactly a necessity, but one could never be too sure in Havana.
***
As Francis made his way to Stacey’s hideout, he couldn’t help but fiddle with the pendant Saint Agnes handed him.
The last two weeks were nothing short of eventful, leaving him with little time to think about his old life.
Eventful no longer.
Whatever Stanza Xavier used to cleanse Saint Agnes’ essence from the pendant was nothing to scoff at. And the fact that he did it absentmindedly only made it more morbid.
Alas, the pendant was far from the only thing worth pondering.
Francis hadn’t the slightest clue what happened to his crewmates. Perhaps the church executed them, perhaps they’re rotting in a dungeon. How was he to know? “Lowlife pirates” had no faces.
And no trials.
Valeria was another question mark that left him guessing relentlessly. Did she pronounce them dead? Did she leave his hometown already? Did she hurt the townfolk as revenge?
No. She’s not the type.
Even then, that left questions of its own. Questions that mostly centered around Camila.
Oh Camila…
Thinking of the woman reminded Francis of all the nights he spent thinking he would never move on. Yet there he was, completely through with it.
And more miserable than ever.
Still, at least the tragedy of Camila didn’t contribute to said misery, and that was a win.
“No matter,” he mumbled as he drew closer to the address provided. “Let’s just focus on the matter at hand.”