CHAPTER 17: [17] THE RED-HAIRED MENACE

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"Listen up, you sea dogs!" Reynolds barked, his weathered face flushed from running up three flights of stairs. "Captain Hardy wants this red-haired scum found yesterday!"

Ensign Martinez elbowed his way to the front, pressing his nose almost against the poster. "Holy depths, look at those teeth! Guy’s got fangs like a sea monster."

"Artist got a bit creative with the intimidation factor," Petty Officer Lera muttered, adjusting her glasses.

Reynolds cleared his throat, commanding attention again. "The crew that brings this bastard in gets luxury rations for two weeks—real coffee imported from the Ember Sea and chocolate cake every night. Plus two thousand Cori split among the squad!"

"Two thousand Cori? That’s a month’s pay!"

"Forget the money, I haven’t had that coffee since my last shore leave!"

"My squad’s taking the market district—"

"Like hell you are! We called it first!"

Near the back of the crowd, a figure in a faded Navy work uniform pushed a cleaning cart loaded with mops, brushes, and buckets of soapy water. His naval cap sat low over his eyes, casting shadows across his face. The nameplate on his chest read "T. MARTIN" in block letters.

Pierre kept his head down as he maneuvered the cart through the dispersing crowd. The uniform was tight on his frame, a reminder that Raven will never be allowed to shop for him. Salt stains and faded marks gave it the authentic wear of genuine work clothes.

"You heard the Lieutenant Commander!" Chief Joshua’s voice boomed over the chatter. "I want search teams covering every district, every alley, every rat hole in this town. This red-haired piece of trash insulted our Captain’s daughter, and we’re going to make him regret the day his mother birthed him!"

More cheers erupted.

"Team Alpha, take the residential quarter!"

"Team Beta, commercial district!"

"Team Gamma, you’re checking the docks!"

The organized chaos continued for several more minutes as Reynolds divided the base personnel into hunting parties. Pierre positioned his cart near a pillar, pretending to organize his cleaning supplies while keeping one ear on the chaotic chatter that filled the hall.

"—caught sight of that Lady Alyssa sprinting down the corridors again, practically naked save for those lacy underthings she’s so fond of wearing. The way she was running, you’d think someone lit her tail on fire—"

"—getting to be a regular occurrence, isn’t it? Third show she’s put on this month alone—"

"—though I’ve got to admit, it’s not exactly a hardship catching those little performances of hers. The way those curves of hers move when she runs... like watching poetry in motion—"

Okay... either I’m tripping or the woman that called Raven a slut is streaking through the Naval Base.

Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably only twenty minutes, the last of the search teams filed out of the assembly hall. Their excited chatter and heavy footsteps faded down the corridors as they spread throughout Hotaru Town like hunting dogs following a scent.

Pierre waited another five minutes, counting heartbeats while he methodically arranged and rearranged the bottles of cleaning solution in his cart. Only when silence settled over the hall like a heavy blanket did he finally approach the bulletin board.

"Okay, what the fuck is this?"

The poster stared back at him with cartoonish malevolence. The artist had taken considerable creative license with his features, transforming his normal canines into razor-sharp fangs that belonged in a monster’s mouth rather than a human’s. His red hair looked like flames frozen mid-explosion, wild and unkempt in ways that defied both physics and good taste. Worst of all, his eyes had been drawn with an almost demonic intensity.

I’ve seen political cartoons with more accurate proportions than this.

Pierre pulled the poster down. The paper felt cheap between his fingers, the kind of mass-produced propaganda that Naval bases churned out by the hundreds. At the bottom, printed in smaller, more serious text that contrasted sharply with the cartoonish illustration above, were the specifics that made his situation all too real: "Wanted for assault on Naval personnel, theft of government property, and seditious statements against Captain Josiah Hardy. Reward: ◊5,000 for capture alive, ◊500 dead."

They’re taking this pretty seriously for someone who just wanted to have a conversation, Pierre thought, his fingers tracing over the text describing his alleged crimes. The assault charge was understandable—he had grabbed the Captain’s daughter by the wrist. The theft accusation was technically accurate too, though calling his borrowed, musty work uniform "government property" seemed like a stretch. But the seditious statements charge made him shake his head.

"Seditious statements," Pierre muttered. "I said I wanted to meet him. In this world, that counts as sedition?"

Pierre folded the poster and tucked it inside his work shirt. The evidence of his newfound notoriety would make an interesting souvenir.

My first bounty and I’ve only been here for a day!

As he prepared to leave the assembly hall, Pierre caught sight of another poster on the bulletin board—this one advertising a recruitment drive for new Naval personnel. The smiling faces of clean-cut young men and women stared back at him, promising adventure, honor, and service to the United Government.

What a load of bullshit.

The reality he saw was corruption and intimidation, all dressed up in white uniforms and patriotic rhetoric.

He turned a corner and nearly collided with a group of sailors hurrying toward the exit. They barely glanced at him as they passed, too focused on their hunt for the mysterious red-haired criminal to notice the very person they were seeking was standing right in front of them.

He’d successfully infiltrated the Naval base using nothing more than a borrowed uniform and the universal invisibility of service workers. Everyone in this building was hunting him, and he was hiding right under their noses.

Pierre continued down the corridor, the air smelling of antiseptic and floor wax. His cart’s wheels squeaked softly against the polished floor, the only sound in the sudden quiet. Each step took him deeper into the heart of Hardy’s operation, closer to the things he needs to complete his mission.

The hunt for the Red-Haired Menace was about to get very interesting indeed.