WANTED

  Name: Valeria [Surname Redacted]

  Affiliation: The Iberian Crown

  Reward: 5,000 Silver Pounds

  Notes: Exercise caution. Subject is extremely adept at evasion.

  — The English Crown

  Who are you when no one is looking?

  It was a heavy question, one Francis didn’t dare ask himself for the longest time.

  Why would he? It’s not like deeper introspection was of much value when you’re surrounded by simpletons.

  Who would subject themselves to migraines when it was better to simply… exist?

  But of course, such a notion hinged on having something to lose.

  And he had none.

  No Camila.

  No crew.

  No Leonie.

  Not even Saint Agnes.

  He was utterly alone.

  So who was he when no one was looking?

  Was he Francis the bartender? Francis the pirate? Yves the bounty hunter?

  All?

  None?

  By the time the ringing in his ears subsided and his vision cleared, the room was visibly different.

  What painted the walls and floor in crimson was nowhere to be seen. It made Francis think that the Xavier interaction was all but a hallucination.

  That would make sense, would it not? Sailors spoke of plants that were said to alter one’s reality.

  I’m having a lovely time with whoever gave me Datura.

  Francis then looked down and found that his body was in perfect condition.

  His leg was back, and his abdomen appeared untouched.

  Did any of it happen?

  How far did the delirium go? How much of the fight was a mirage?

  The man got up, then began paying closer attention to his surroundings. The room hadn’t a drop of blood.

  Francis then crouched to observe the intricacies of the wood. And sure enough, there was nothing.

  That still left one question unanswered, however. How did he end up in such a room?

  And why does it feel cooler?

  Francis was no hoi polloi. He knew to what extent Datura altered one’s mind and perception. But why wasn’t he getting bothered for occupying a room that wasn’t his?

  Suddenly, he recalled a valuable clue.

  Although there was no way to confirm Read’s status, he could investigate his other wishes.

  Francis began frantically looking for a mirror, but the room offered none.

  Seriously. Who doesn’t have a mirror in their room?

  The man paced around for longer, then gave up as it bore no fruit.

  That left only two options.

  Francis grabbed his pendant and began chanting Saint Agnes’ incantation.

  “Oh, Saint of Dominion

  Venerated are thee

  And revered is thy might

  Aid me in my tribulation

  And shade me from harm.”

  He waited for a few minutes, and perhaps unsurprisingly, nothing happened.

  The outcome was unsettling, but he didn’t let it affect him, as Saint Agnes seldom answered.

  Left with no other choice, Francis grabbed his meager belongings and walked toward the door.

  Luckily, no one was in the unfamiliar building’s hallways, sparing him the inconvenience of explaining himself.

  As the unfamiliar room was on the first floor, it didn’t take Francis long to reach the streets of Orange Town. The temperature’s noticeable drop wasn’t lost on him, but it wasn’t necessarily odd.

  What was odd, however, was the district he found himself in.

  Orange Town’s alleys and streets were rather wide, which was fitting for the sparsely populated island. The buildings meeting his gaze, on the other hand, were not.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The cramped blocks, dirty sidewalks, and restless crowds were unlike anything he’d seen in Orange Town, even if his stay was a brief one.

  What is this smell?

  The moment of confusion didn’t linger, as a pickpocket attempted to take what survived Read.

  Francis instinctively punched the man in the mouth, causing him to bleed all over the faded pavement.

  When have I become so violent?

  By the time he regained his bearings, he wished to apologize to the man, but the stranger was already a few buildings away, undoubtedly lamenting underestimating Francis.

  “Good punch, that was,” a woman in her middle years said as she passed by.

  Francis half expected the crowds to condemn him, making her praise rather perplexing.

  “Thank you,” he said in confusion.

  “No, lad. I should be the one thanking you,” she replied. “At least that will teach him not to mess with us hardworking folks.”

  As far as memory served, thugs had only tried to rob him once, and that was only because he received a handsome reward from the Iberian Crown.

  A petty pickpocketing, on the other hand, was unheard of.

  The mounting evidence made Francis inwardly recoil, but he had to face the reality of things rather than deny it.

  “Excuse me,” he said to the passing woman. “Which district is this?”

  “Vedado,” the woman replied after turning once more. “Why? Are you new here?”

  Francis wanted to cut to the chase and ask which island he was on, but that would’ve made her think he was dropped as a baby.

  “Truth be told,” he explained, “my mates dumped me here after I got drunk and went on their way. So now I’m trying to go back home.”

  The woman raised a brow. “Just another day in Havana.”

  Havana?

  “Just go to the nearest carriage,” she added. “They’ll know what to do.”

  She then turned once more and left him to his devices.

  Havana. Francis was in Havana.

  Implying that all of it was real.

  The fight, the chase, the injuries, the gore, the deal.

  All of it.

  As the lady confirmed that none of it was an illusion, his mind wandered to the sight of Read being plastered all over the room once more.

  This time, it made his stomach churn. It took Francis all of his willpower not to vomit, which thankfully worked.

  He then attempted to expel the mental image with great difficulty, but his mind chose to linger.

  Oh well. At least the nausea is gone.

  ***

  It took Francis a great deal of effort to find a bar worth his attention, but his efforts bore fruit at long last.

  Unlike Orange Town, Havana was a goliath of a city. The sheer number of establishments made his unease border on paranoia, as he hadn’t the slightest clue whether he was going to find work or be arrested.

  And arrested he would be, as the former pirate was far from the biggest fish in the sea.

  How could he be, when Havana was the capital of Iberia? With millions of residents, Submerged were as common as grass, even if most didn’t show it.

  On the bright side. That would help with blending in.

  Unfortunately, the redo Xavier provided him required far more than using a fake name. He had to reforge himself.

  Appearance, mannerisms, personality, job title. All of it had to change, and fast.

  He didn’t exactly know what came of Orange Town after Read was gone, but Francis was the last person who saw him, and that didn’t bode well for his identity.

  I am certainly getting a bounty, aren’t I?

  Still, the only one who remotely cared about Read was the English Crown, and they were naturally nowhere to be seen in Iberia’s bustling capital.

  Francis nearly approached the bartender to strike up a conversation as a way to gather information, but that was how the old him operated. And so he took a stool in the far corner in silence and observed.

  Literally.

  Activating Observation was a risky affair, but it was no saintly Stanza.

  Besides, Observation is a two-way street.

  Sure enough, Francis began feeling a few ripples coming from the crowds. The majority were Supplicant level, while very few were relatively higher. None demanded immediate attention, however, and so he allowed himself to relax.

  At least until he felt it.

  At the other end of the bar, someone was using a Venerable-level Stanza. Francis instinctively looked in that direction and saw a middle-aged man staring at him relentlessly.

  His recent experience with Read nearly made him run for dear life, but he thought better of it at the last moment.

  Not all ripples were indicative of level. Some were the work of artifacts, while others were Fragments. Furthermore, why would a Venerable spend time in such a place?

  The Stanza faded as quickly as it appeared, restoring the place’s peace and quiet. Francis, however, read what was between the lines instantly.

  It was an invitation.

  The old him would’ve simply ignored it and gone on his way, but such behavior was exactly why he ended up under Xavier’s mercy. And so he got up and approached the man casually.

  Despite the relatively short distance, every step felt like an eternity. But again, it was necessary.

  “Good evening,” Francis said as he finally reached the man.

  “Evening,” the man replied flatly.

  Awfully rude for someone who just invited me.

  Francis kept the indignation to himself and proceeded. “May I take a seat?”

  “By all means,” the man said with a shrug.

  The two then looked at one another for a long moment, until the older man broke the silence. “Trying to get killed, boy?”

  “What gave you that impression?” Francis replied, a moment away from burning him to a crisp.

  “Who uses Observation as soon as they enter a bar?” the man retorted in a hushed tone.

  “I just wanted to know what to expect.”

  “Well,” the man said as he looked at the customers, “clearly not much.”

  “I wouldn’t say you’re not much,” Francis tested.

  His snark must’ve impressed the man, as he chuckled slightly before reclining into his chair. “Your first time in Havana?”

  Francis wanted to answer honestly, but he had no reason to. “First time I’ve stayed this long, yeah.”

  “Word of advice then,” the man added. “Keep that Observation of yours to yourself. Havana is no remote dump.”