CHAPTER 7: [7] SIDE CHARACTER MY ASS!

The darkness shifted, dissolving into a haze of blue and gold. Pierre was falling. Not through air, but through time—his consciousness sinking through layers of memory like a stone through water.

These aren’t my memories.

But they were. Or rather, they belonged to this world’s version of him.

The first image that solidified was of a small island, emerald green against the sapphire sea. White sand beaches curved like a smile around a collection of wooden houses. Children ran between the buildings, their laughter carried on the salt-tinged breeze.

One boy stood apart from the others, watching the horizon where the sea met the sky. His hair was as red as autumn leaves, his eyes the color of a cloudless summer day. Though only seven or eight years old, he had the serious expression of someone much older.

Pierre watched as a large hand descended onto the boy’s shoulder. The hand belonged to a tall, broad man with a wild mane of black hair and a scar that bisected his right cheek. His face was partially obscured by shadow, but his smile was undeniable.

"Still watching for ships, Pierre?" The man’s voice was deep.

Young Pierre nodded without looking away from the horizon. "One day I’m going to sail beyond it."

"Beyond the horizon? Gehahahaha!" The man’s laugh was distinctive—starting deep in his chest before exploding outward like cannon fire. "The horizon never ends, boy. That’s the beauty of it."

"Then I’ll never stop sailing," young Pierre replied simply.

The hard lines around the man’s eyes gentled as he looked down at the boy. "You’ve got the sea in your blood, just like your old man. It’s in our name, after all. Pierre..."

The last name was lost in the crash of waves against the shore.

The scene shifted. Young Pierre sat on a dock, legs dangling above the water. Next to him, the same man worked on a small wooden boat, his massive hands surprisingly delicate as they carved patterns into the gunwale.

"Dad, why don’t we live in a big city? Like Keone or Dodola?"

The man’s hands paused. "Those places aren’t for people like us, Pierre."

"What kind of people are we?"

His father looked up at the sky, as if searching for the right words among the clouds. "The kind that changes the world. The kind that refuses to be bound by other people’s rules."

"Is that bad?"

"Depends who you ask." He resumed his carving. "The United Government would say yes. But the world isn’t just what they say it is."

Young Pierre frowned. "Teacher says we should be grateful for the United Government. They keep us safe."

"Gehahahaha! And what do they keep you safe from, boy?"

"Evil people like pirates and criminals."

"And who decides who’s evil? Who decides who’s a criminal?" His father tapped the knife against the wood. "Remember this, Pierre—power writes history, and those who hold power decide what’s right and wrong."

Young Pierre’s brow furrowed. "That doesn’t sound fair."

"It isn’t." His father’s eyes darkened. "But that’s why the world needs people who aren’t afraid to challenge that power. People like..." He trailed off, then ruffled Pierre’s red hair. "Never mind. You’ll understand when you’re older."

"But what does it mean, Dad? You have to tell me. What does our name mean?"

His father’s hands stilled completely on the carved wood. The knife trembled slightly in his grip.

"Our name..." He set the knife down and turned to face Pierre fully. The scar across his cheek caught the afternoon light, making it seem fresh despite its obvious age. "It means we don’t kneel. Not to kings, not to emperors, not to anyone who claims they have the right to rule over others."

The man’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper, but every word carried the weight of stone.

"It means we believe freedom isn’t something you ask permission for. It’s something you take, something you fight for, something you die for if necessary." His fingers traced the carved patterns on the boat’s edge—intricate swirls that almost looked like waves frozen in wood. "Your grandfather understood that. His father before him understood it too."

Young Pierre leaned forward, completely absorbed. "Are we pirates then?"

A flicker of pride warmed his father’s eyes, only to be chased by a shadow that tightened his jaw. For a brief second, his gaze darted toward the open sea before he locked his eyes back on his son.

"We’re something older than pirates, boy. Something the world used to call—"

Pierre’s eyes snapped open to wooden planks inches from his face. His skull throbbed with the kind of pain that suggested a concussion, and something warm and sticky matted the back of his red hair. Blood. Definitely blood.

Above him, chaos erupted in a symphony of screams, gunshots, and laughter that belonged in nightmares. The distinctive sound of steel clashing against steel echoed through the ship’s hull, punctuated by the splintering crash of furniture being destroyed.

"SHIT!" Pierre gasped, pushing himself up on unsteady arms. "That asshole put me right when the attack happened!"

The Mariana Cruise. Chapter 22. The realization hit him with the force of another blow. This was the Redbeard Pirates’ assault on the luxury liner. He remembered the page perfectly: Jack Steelheart first demonstrating his ridiculous Boobie Boost power, accidentally groping a waitress and gaining enough strength to punch through a steel bulkhead.

Pierre’s head pounded as fragmented memories—both his and the original Pierre’s—crashed together like waves in a storm. This Pierre, the one whose body he now inhabited, had been below deck when the pirates struck. Some nameless, faceless passenger who’d taken a tumble down these very stairs during the initial attack and cracked his skull on the wooden steps.

"To have a backstory like that," Pierre muttered, gingerly touching the wound, "and still die like cannon fodder. What a waste."

Jack was up there right now, probably stumbling through his first real fight, accidentally discovering his powers while trying to protect passengers. Which meant the captain of the Redbeards would be focused entirely on the main deck, putting on a show for his crew.

And if Jack was fighting the captain, then where was...

Jack defeated the pirate captain after his power boost, then spent the rest of the Chapter helping injured passengers. Later, when the Navy arrived, they searched the Redbeard ship for treasure and found absolutely nothing. Jack had just thought the pirates were stealing from the ship to get some treasure.

But Pierre knew better. In the original story, there had been treasure. And it had vanished because while Jack was playing hero and the captain was playing villain, someone else entirely was being the ultimate opportunist.

"Raven."

The half-white, half-red haired navigator. One of the top ten best navigators in the world, according to the author’s constant exposition dumps. Right now, while chaos reigned above and Jack fought for his first power-up, she would be systematically looting the Redbeard ship right from under their noses.

"Oh, I’m a genius," he laughed, the sound echoing off the wooden walls. "An absolute genius."

While Jack was up there accidentally groping his way to superhuman strength and the Redbeards were focused on their dramatic raid, Pierre had the perfect opportunity to intercept one of the story’s most valuable characters. Someone who was the lynchpin of Jack’s future crew but who, right now, was nothing more than an exceptionally gifted thief, ripe for the picking.

Someone who could be convinced to work with a different crew entirely.

Pierre wiped blood from his fingers onto his shirt and forced himself to stand.

"Lock in, Pierre. It’s time to steal a navigator."