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“Storage room detail! Can you believe this?!”
“Well, yeah. You did lose Captain’s favorite scalpel.”
Shachi whirled around, hands flying from the pockets of his boiler suit to wave above his head. His face distorted, eyes narrowing beneath angled shades, lips curling over teeth. “It was your idea to hide it in the first place!”
Penguin scuffed his steel-toed boots against the sleek metal of the corridor, trudging after his friend. “Why do you think I’m here?”
Red hair ignited a mane of flames beneath Shachi’s patterned cap. “Because you’ve got the memory of a goldfish,” he grumbled, “Not even the giant kind, either.”
Pointedly ignoring the comment, Penguin shouldered past Shachi towards the door at the end of the hall. The knob stuck, rattling uselessly. With a huff, Penguin threw his weight onto the steel panel, the whine of hinges a trumpet reveal for the storage room beyond.
Penguin wasn’t sure what was worse - the ominous darkness of the indistinguishable shadows creeping from floor to ceiling, or the absolute disaster revealed with a click of the motion activated lights.
The scene before them gave the two Heart Pirates a good idea of their captain’s anger, for it was clear that no one had organized the storage room in a long time. Hell, Penguin wasn’t sure anyone had ever set foot in the space. He hadn’t known of its existence until the orders to clean it out had slipped from Law’s vindictive smirk.
Looming bookshelves lined with loose papers, medical tomes, and various blood-spattered boxes marked ‘Preserves’ chained themselves to submarine tech through cobwebs, dust bunnies huddled against the base of spare kitchen appliances. An open cabinet spilled medical records onto the floor, the steel sticky with some sort of dark liquid that Penguin was afraid to investigate. Treasure chests were piled into corners. A single heart beat steadily on top of a rusty stool.
Everywhere he looked, more crap caught his eye. It seemed as if someone had carelessly tossed every object into the room with zero attempt to organize, like the objects had popped into existence out of thin air and…
Wait.
Shachi glared at the coins scattered around the floor, barely visible beneath clutter. Penguin recognized them immediately as duplicates from a particular collection.
“He’s a monster,” Shachi groaned.
“He’s our captain,” Penguin sighed, already nudging a cardboard box aside with his foot, trying to clear a path for them to begin cataloging the contents of the room.
A chorus of alarmed squeaks rose from the box, the sound muffled in the crowded closet.
“What was that?” Shachi asked, peering into the container. Penguin hummed in response, looking over his shoulder in wait.
With a gasp, Shachi retrieved a bundle of fabric. Penguin’s eyes widened.
Voice breathless with awe, Shachi exclaimed, “They had babies!”
There, cradled in his arms, were three tiny transponder snails, snuggled up against a rather irate video transponder snail.
Penguin frowned, turning away to sort through boxes, shifting stethoscopes and thermometers. He wasn’t entirely sure what to do about the jars of floating viscera, though.
He paid no mind when a warm glow flooded the room.
“Observe,” Shachi whispered in an exaggerated North Blue accent, “The cabin boy of the Heart Pirates in his natural habitat, sentenced to another day of cleaning in the belly of the submarine.”
Penguin craned his neck to see Shachi still in the doorway, one of the baby snails in his extended palm. Its eyes shone a brilliant gold as it took in the scene, a soft clicking coming from its belly, like it was snapping multiple photos at once.
“Are you filming this?” he gawked.
Shachi only continued. “Despite the sunny exterior of the Polar Tang, this Penguin’s life is nowhere near as colorful. Once among the captain’s favorites, he has fallen from grace, a lost scalpel abandoning him to the dreary network of hallways. While the rest of the crew breaks for food, he will be left alone to rot in the storage room.”
His voice lapsed into giggles. The snail bounced in his hand, laughter rattling his palm.
Penguin couldn’t help himself. A mischievous smirk tugged at his lips as he reached for the mollusk. “Wanna make some memories?”
Shachi grinned, lifting the tiny camera closer to Penguin’s face. “I’d say these guys have a…”
Penguin groaned.
“...Reel bright future.”
One stupid pun and they were off, scampering through the underbelly of the Polar Tang. Penguin could feel the thrill of their quest thrumming through his veins, the adrenaline sharpening his mind like observation haki.
Law would dismember them a dozen times over.
Thankfully, the crew in the navigation room never saw them coming.
“Within the dark depths of the steel prison,” it was Penguin’s turn, “the hooded man watches the sonar radar religiously, eyes glued to the neon flashing upon the screen.”
Clione sat before a bright display, his back to the door. The only distinguishing feature that Penguin could make out was the tip of navy blue fabric extending from the man’s head. The waves pulsing across the screen almost matched the curve of the hood.
“Some say the spirals have turned his brain to mush,” Shachi whispered, crowding Penguin’s space in the sliver of the open door.
“That’s why he dons a hood, to keep his mind from spilling out of his ears.”
“Yo, Clione,” a muffled voice spoke up from further into the room, obscured from Penguin's view. “The INS is reacting to a strange current. Anything on the radar?”
“Nothing but salty sea for miles around,” Clione chirped, “Bepo?”
“Oh!” The flustered squeak of their favorite navigator preceded the rustle of parchment. Penguin used the noise as an opportunity to inch the door open wider.
Uni sat at the stretch of machinery that bordered an observation window. His fluffy brows drew together as he watched a gyroscope. Penguin guessed he was frowning beneath the bandanna fixed to the lower half of his face.
Nearby, a vibrant orange jumpsuit cut through the monochrome hues, Bepo’s fur shining silver as he rummaged through a stack of maps.
“Behold,” Shachi whispered to the transponder snail, “The irony of a mink born high above the clouds, forced to guide lesser minks through the dreary deep of the seas.”
“See the distressed gleam in his eyes?” Penguin snickered, “He craves the open air, not the sweltering stuffiness of a submarine.”
With a flourish, Bepo held a sea chart high above his head. “Okay. It’s the underwater tunnel that leads to our next island. Sorry.”
Penguin and Shachi rolled their eyes.
“It’s fine,” Uni didn’t even bother turning from the meters before him.
Clione hummed, “You don’t have to give us advance heads up. Just tell us what to do now.”
Bepo flushed so hard, the fur of his cheeks bloomed a soft pink. “Ah, right! Um, steer into the current and stay in line. The tunnel should appear soon… AH?!”
The Polar Tang lurched to the right, sending everything and everyone slipping towards the far wall.
With a deafening creak, the door to the navigation room swung open. Shachi yelped as he tumbled to Bepo’s feet.
Bepo stared down at the heap of familiar boiler suits. A beat passed as Clione righted the vessel.
“Er,” Penguin tried to free his leg from Shachi’s armpit, “how’s it going, Navigation Crew Extraordinaire?”
Bepo’s eyes flicked to the golden glow spilling from the snail’s eyes.
“It’s just for fun!” Shachi tried to explain, “Don’t worry - We only said good things!”
Uni’s chair squeaked as he swiveled away from the monitors. “You were documenting us?”
“Yeah!” Penguin’s enthusiasm sent eyebrows disappearing into hair (and hood) lines alike. “Like a home movie!”
Clear apprehension crept across Bepo’s face. “Captain’s not gonna see me fumble the path to the cave, is he?”
Penguin and Shachi chose not to comment. That was enough of an answer on its own.
Bepo roared. He lunged forward, deadly claws glinting as he tried to swipe the snail right out of Shachi’s hand. However, the two morons were faster, utilizing their smaller size to duck beneath Bepo’s arms and retreat back into the hallway.
Clione and Uni’s laughter disappeared with distance. Chests heaving in time with aching lungs, Penguin and Shachi ran for their lives. They pivoted so fast into the third door on the right, they were positive their boots had left burn marks on the sleek steel ground.
Before Shachi could secure the lock against the rampaging mink, the sharp clank of iron resonated throughout the large chamber, the acrid stench of fuel tickling Penguin’s nostrils.
Shachi gulped. Slowly, he lifted the snail to look over his shoulder. “Some would question the compatibility of luscious curls with stifling humidity. Ikkaku is an outlier.”
Penguin admired his tenacity.
The Tang’s number one mechanic marched up to them, abandoning her post by the massive engine chugging away like some sort of greasy centerpiece. Ikkaku looked them up and down with clear disdain, scoffing, “What in the four blues are you doing?”
“Filming!” Penguin feigned confidence, hoping it would come off as disarming. “Anything to add?”
“Get that thing out of my face or you’ll both become real acquainted with my wrench,” She threatened, the heavy tool hoisted above her head.
It was then that a charging polar bear slammed against the door to the engine room, knocking it open and sending Penguin stumbling backwards. Ikkaku, with a very audible groan, grabbed him by the arm, preventing him from tumbling into the engine.
“Bepo!” Ikkaku scolded, “You too?!”
Fluffy ears folded against a ducked head. “Sorry…”
And the chase continued, Penguin and Shachi fleeing the scene without another word. Video transponder snail clutched against his chest, Shachi barreled towards a restricted wing.
The hairs on the back of Penguin’s neck stood on end. His gut churned. He opened his mouth to voice a warning, but…
Another door was thrust open, a chill crashing into the duo like a wave upon a sandy shore.
The snail’s eyes bulged in their sockets, a tremor running down the length of its shell. Penguin felt sorry for their little buddy. The sight before them was far from comforting.
Law didn’t even turn around, busy prodding the bright blue blood coursing through Hakugan’s exposed veins. “This is a breach of doctor-patient confidentiality,” he droned, lacking any sort of inflection.
Hakugan waved cheerfully, legs kicking against the edge of the examination table. Penguin thought he was smiling. It was hard to tell with the mask.
There was no time for doubt, however, as Shachi made the wise decision to leave before their captain could remove their limbs.
“Oh Snaily,” Shachi lamented, words breathless from their trek through the sub, “We’re really in it, now.”
And still, the snail continued to film. Penguin could only imagine the footage it was picking up, all jostled hallway shots accompanied by muffled shouts from the horde tailing them.
“It’s safe in here,” Penguin gasped as he barricaded the pantry door with multiple sacks of potatoes.
“Is it?”
Shachi squealed as Jean Bart’s gravelly voice swelled within the narrow confines of the pantry. How they had missed his hulking figure in the shadows of the shelves, Penguin wasn’t sure.
Shachi’s lower lip trembled.
“Don’t,” Penguin warned.
“Nestled in the pantry of the notorious Heart Pirates, one would find a fearsome former captain,” Shachi squeaked, his accent failing, “rendered a mere cook left to scrounge together gluten-free meals for the pickiest of eaters, lest his eyes be plucked out and - AH!”
The snail was snatched from his hand. The look Jean Bart gave them was enough to make Penguin consider resigning from pirating. Could one do that? Would he have to turn himself into the marines? Could he claim his bounty?
Jean Bart held the baby transponder snail between his thumb and finger, staring into its glowing eyes. “Ah,” He grunted, “Looks like you troublemakers found my little friends.”
Shachi visibly flinched as Jean Bart shouldered his way past them, pushing the flimsily barricaded door open to reveal the brightly lit kitchen beyond.
It was embarrassing - the two of them cowering among dry food storage while the Terror of the North went about making…
“A salad?” Shachi frowned, ignoring Penguin’s elbow jabbing his ribs. “Dude, that’s a lame dinner.”
The chuckle that trickled from the large man’s lips was ominous, at best.
“The salad is for the snails,” Jean Bart gently petted the little beast’s shell, before pointing to a disposal bin in the corner. “Help yourself to potato skins. Cap says you’re eating them for a week!”