A Tough Choice

A system notification lit up in the center of Jack's vision.

"Sacrifice complete. Zoan Dog-Dog Fruit, Hyena Form Lineage Factor extracted."

"Heartsteel maximum +10. Current maximum: 80. Current stacks: 11/80."

"Drawing at random..."

The system panel popped up again.

Option One

Category: Champion skill

Name: Corki [R Skill - Missile Barrage]

Effect: Corki fires a missile. Every fourth missile becomes a super missile that deals extra damage. One missile reloads every 12 seconds, with up to seven stored. Missiles deal area magic damage.

Description: Corki's core poke skill. The super missile's burst damage can produce unexpected results in team fights. Suited to keeping enemies at range and holding a position.

Option Two

Category: Champion skill

Name: Ezreal [Q Skill - Mystic Shot]

Effect: Ezreal fires a bolt of energy that deals physical damage. Hitting an enemy reduces the cooldown of all his skills. This skill counts as a basic attack and can trigger on-hit effects.

Description: Ezreal's core damage skill. Frequent, with a short cooldown and the ability to trigger on-hit effects, it is his main source of damage and cooldown reduction.

Option Three

Category: Champion skill

Name: Jinx [E Skill - Flame Chompers!]

Effect: Jinx throws three trap grenades. After a short delay, they explode, dealing magic damage to nearby enemies and rooting them for 1.5 seconds. The traps last five seconds and explode when triggered.

Description: Jinx's crowd-control skill. It can cut off escape routes, stop enemies from closing in, or extend a combo. It is vital for protecting her and keeping enemies from getting away.

Why were they all skills this time? I don't want any of them. Can I watch an ad to reroll?

Forget it. I'll take Mystic Shot. At least it's ranged. Worst case, I can pretend it's Finger Pistol.

After closing the panel, Jack suddenly realized that, at one Heartsteel stack a day, his stacks weren't keeping up with the rising maximum.

I've killed too many ability users, and the maximum's climbing too fast. Should I take a few days off to build up some stacks?

He lifted his foot. Moretti's head lolled to one side, his neck bent at an unnatural angle with a soft crack. Jack's finger marks still ringed Moretti's right wrist, deep purple bruises pressed into the skin. The bones were shattered, and the wrist hung limp.

Footsteps came from outside the warehouse. Godo and Kafka entered through a side door, carrying an iron rod and a Short Knife. Godo's rod was covered in blood, its tip bent. Kafka's Short Knife had a curled edge and several nicks in the blade.

Godo saw Moretti lying in the pile of broken wood, mouth open, blood dried at its corners. His eyes were half-closed, their pupils unfocused. Godo froze, then swore. Behind him, blood still dripped from Kafka's Short Knife, but Kafka wasn't looking at Moretti. He was looking at Jack. Jack stood before Moretti, blood all over his coat and bits of flesh still clinging to his fists. Yet his breathing was steady, as if he had just finished a set of push-ups.

In the back room, several children were still huddled in a corner. The youngest had stopped crying. Curled up in the oldest child's arms, with a finger in his mouth and his eyes closed, he had fallen asleep. The oldest still held an iron bar, but his hand no longer shook. He watched Jack walk over from Moretti, crouch, and hold out a hand.

The child hesitated, then set down the iron bar. Jack helped him out of the corner and handed him to Kafka. Kafka took the child in his arms and headed outside. His legs had stopped shaking.

Godo searched the other end of the warehouse. He kicked aside a broken wooden crate, revealing neatly stacked cans in tin packaging with words printed on them. He crouched, picked one up, and turned it over.

His hand stopped.

A line of small, crisp, evenly printed text ran across the tin. "Navy Supplies · 16th Branch · West Blue." Godo rubbed a finger over the can and felt the raised lettering against his fingertip. He could read. He knew what it said. He had seen identical cans in the 16th Branch warehouse, with the same packaging and the same lettering.

He had collected cans like these from the 16th Branch warehouse. They ate them in the mess hall, too. Bastian had said they were rations issued by headquarters, with a monthly allotment personally signed for by the branch chief. So why were 16th Branch cans in Moretti's warehouse? Why were Navy rations in the Mafia's warehouse?

Godo set the can on the floor and opened another crate beside it. It contained medicine. The boxes bore a cross, with "Navy Medical Department" printed in one corner. He opened one and found bandages and anti-inflammatory medicine inside. The white bandages even carried the Navy Medical Department's stamp.

Kafka came back in and found Godo crouched beside the broken crate, holding a can with a strange expression on his face. He walked over and took the can. His fingers brushed the tin, and his pupils contracted. He turned it over and read it again.

"This is..." Kafka said quietly.

"16th Branch supplies." Godo's voice was low, each word forced through clenched teeth. "Rations, medicine. All from the 16th Branch."

Kafka said nothing. He put the can back, closed the crate, and looked at Jack.

Jack came out of the back room carrying the last child. He handed the child to Doni, who took the child in his arms and headed outside. Jack walked up beside Godo and glanced down at the crate. In the torchlight, the words printed on the cans were clear. "16th Branch" stood out like a scar.

Jack bent down, took a can from the crate, and turned it over. The lettering had been stamped into the tin in neat type. The production date was three months ago. He tossed it back. It bounced off another can, rolled into the corner, and came to rest against the wall.

Godo looked at Jack. His lips moved, but before he could speak, Jack turned and walked out of the warehouse without looking at him. The hem of Jack's coat swayed in the night wind. The blood on it had dried dark brown, barely visible against the black fabric.

Kafka crouched and replaced the crate's lid, then stood and followed Jack outside. Godo gave the can in the corner one last look, swore, ground out the cigarette butt on the floor, and followed them.

Outside the warehouse, the children had already been taken aboard the Patrol Boat. Colin stood beside the helm, his wings folded behind him, night dew clinging to his feathers. His eyes gleamed in the dark. With a Falcon's night vision, he had seen everything that happened inside: Jack pinning Moretti under his foot, Moretti's blood pooling on the floor. Colin's expression did not change, but his fingers gripped the wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

Jack emerged from the warehouse, the blood on his coat glinting dark red in the moonlight. He walked to the Patrol Boat, jumped aboard, and said to Colin, "Cast off. Back to base."

Behind them, the Salt Harbor warehouses burned. Flames licked out through shattered windows, and black smoke rose into the night sky before the wind scattered it. The warehouse's iron doors warped in the heat, their metal panels twisting and creaking.

Fog rose over the sea. The fire grew dimmer within it, shrinking from a blaze to a glow, then to an orange-red speck before vanishing into the mist.

The Patrol Boat sailed into the fog.