GINKEN: Sea Storm

Nathaniel stood firm, his pistol aimed steadily at Yipsiv. The faint glow of the artificial lights in the grand theater's underbelly cast dramatic shadows across the room, illuminating the bars of the cage that trapped Tarot behind him. The air was thick with tension, a charged silence lingering between the two former comrades.

Yipsiv, clad in his rugged cowboy attire, adjusted his hat with a casual flick, his revolver holstered but his hand never straying far from it. A slow, cocky grin spread across his face. "Well, ain't this a sight fer sore eyes. Never thought I'd be facin' ya down, Nate. Life sure does throw a curveball, don't it?"

Nathaniel's eyes narrowed. "Cut the pleasantries, Yipsiv. You know exactly why I'm here. But I didn't expect to see you like this—working for a scumbag like Aurelio. What happened to you?"

Yipsiv chuckled, a low, gravelly sound. "Happened? Nothin' happened, partner. I just saw the world fer what it is. Y'see, SFA taught us a lot, didn't it? Taught us how to fight, how to survive, how to do the dirty work fer folks who wouldn't even tip their hat in thanks."

Nathaniel clenched his jaw, his grip tightening on his pistol. "We fought for something bigger than ourselves, Yipsiv. We believed in justice, in protecting the innocent. You used to believe in that too."

"Justice?" Yipsiv spat the word, like it was a bad taste on his tongue. He began pacing slowly, his boots clicking against the metallic floor. "Justice's just a fancy word fer control, Nate. The Marines—hell, the SFA—they used us. All that talk o' protectin' the innocent? It's just a cover fer the real game. We were nothin' but pawns, and I ain't no pawn no more. Now, I play my own hand."

Nathaniel shook his head, disappointment in his eyes. "You've twisted everything we stood for. Sure, the agency wasn't perfect, but we made a difference. We saved lives."

Yipsiv stopped pacing and turned to face Nathaniel, his expression colder than a desert night. "And what did it get us, huh? A pat on the back? A medal? Nothin' but scars and memories o' folks we couldn't save. I got tired o' fightin' fer scraps, Nate. So I changed the game."

"And joined forces with Aurelio?!" Nathaniel's voice rose, frustration clear in his tone. "You're no better than the people we fought against. Look around you, Yipsiv. You're part of the problem now."

Yipsiv shrugged, his demeanor unbothered. "Call it what ya want, but Aurelio gave me power, a purpose. The Marines did the same thing—they gave Aurelio his start. Don't ya remember? The man worked as a spy fer the Marines before he became who he is now. But here's the thing—he's weak. And I'm tired o' bein' under his thumb."

Nathaniel's eyes widened as the truth hit him. "You're not working with him—you're plotting against him."

Yipsiv grinned, a dangerous gleam in his eye. "Ya catch on quick, Nate. I've had enough o' Aurelio and his little empire. This island, this whole setup—it's all his, but it should be mine. I ain't gonna be no second-rate cowboy no more. I invited the Phoenix Pirates here 'cause I know they've got the muscle I need to take that fella down. They don't even know it yet, but once I take the reins, this place'll be mine, partner."

From behind the cage, Tarot interjected, his voice filled with confusion. "Wait, wait, hold up. You two were... spies? Agents? This is insane! Why didn't anyone tell me we had secret agents on the crew?"

"Not the time, Tarot," Nathaniel muttered without takin' his eyes off Yipsiv.

Yipsiv smirked, tipping his hat slightly. "Your new crew don't know much 'bout ya, do they, Nate? Betcha didn't tell 'em 'bout our little escapades. How many times did we cheat death together? How many lives did we take?"

Nathaniel flinched but didn't lower his gun. "I'm not that person anymore. I left that life behind for a reason."

Yipsiv's grin widened, and he slowly reached fer his revolver. "And that's why you're weak. You let guilt and ideals weigh ya down. Me? I shed all that baggage long ago. That's why I'm gonna come out on top."

Nathaniel steadied his aim. "This isn't about winning, Yipsiv. It's about stopping you before you hurt anyone else."

Yipsiv chuckled darkly, his hand resting on the grip of his gun. "Talk's cheap, Nate. Let's see if ya still got that killer instinct."

The room fell silent, the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. Nathaniel could feel his heart poundin' in his chest, readyin' himself for what was comin'. In the cage, Tarot clutched the bars, watchin' anxiously.

"Don't ya dare lose, Nate!" Tarot shouted. "I'm not stayin' in this cage forever!"

Yipsiv tilted his hat, his fingers twitchin' over his revolver. "Let's dance, partner."

Yipsiv grinned, his metal teeth glinting as he bit down on the bullet, snapping it into place within the chamber of his revolver. With a swift motion, he cocked the weapon, the sound of it echoing through the empty theater. In the blink of an eye, he aimed and fired, sending the bullet hurtling toward Nathaniel with the velocity of a freight train.

Nathaniel, relying on his Inspection, sensed the bullet's trajectory even before Yipsiv pulled the trigger. His reflexes kicked in immediately, and he performed a flawless Migration, darting to the side in a blur of motion. The bullet sliced through the air where he had just been, the sharp crack of gunfire reverberating in his ears. Almost as soon as his feet touched the ground, Nathaniel pulled his own pistol, aiming in one smooth motion. He fired, the bullet speeding toward Yipsiv with pinpoint accuracy.

Yipsiv, unbothered by the close call, moved with the same fluidity, his eyes tracking Nathaniel's movements through the Inspection technique. He spun on his heel, his cutlass slicing through the air in a sharp arc, deflecting Nathaniel's bullet with a clean strike, sending it ricocheting off into the darkness. The force of the deflection caused Yipsiv to slide back a few steps, but he was already back in position, his revolver raised once more.

"You're fast, Nate. But not fast enough," Yipsiv drawled, his grin never fading. He Migrated, closing the distance between them in an instant, his footwork perfect, his body a blur. The revolver flashed in his hand again as he took another shot, this time aiming for Nathaniel's shoulder.

Nathaniel's body responded instinctively to the Inspection—he saw the trajectory of the bullet just a moment before it was fired. His legs tensed, and he Migrated again, evading the shot by a fraction of a second. He immediately returned fire, his bullet aimed for Yipsiv's chest. But Yipsiv was already on the move, his body twisting and ducking as the bullet flew past him. He was right in front of Nathaniel now, the gleam of his cutlass catching the light.

Nathaniel barely had time to react as Yipsiv swung the blade toward him in a wide arc. Nathaniel dodged to the side, his body sliding under the cutlass with a roll. But before he could regain his footing, Yipsiv's revolver was in his hand again, already pointed at him.

With a mocking smile, Yipsiv squeezed the trigger, sending a second bullet straight at Nathaniel's head. This time, Nathaniel didn't have the luxury of Migrating to evade. His Inspection was the only thing saving him, as he ducked just in time, the bullet grazing the top of his hair.

Nathaniel gritted his teeth. He was being pushed to his limits. This wasn't just about speed anymore; it was about surviving long enough to turn the tide.

The theater felt smaller with each exchange, the air thick with the scent of gunpowder and the sound of their rapid movements. The room was full of large, mechanical contraptions—old theater machinery, iron beams, and rows of heavy curtains hanging in the air—perfect for hiding behind, and Nathaniel knew he had to use them.

Yipsiv moved forward again, his confident grin still in place, but Nathaniel's mind was racing. He shot a glance to his right—there, behind a stack of old crates, was the perfect spot. With another sharp Migration, Nathaniel darted behind the crates, just as Yipsiv's bullet slammed into the wooden wall where he'd been standing. He paused, taking a breath, his senses heightened.

Yipsiv, never one to lose track of his target, followed with his Inspection. He moved toward the crates with casual confidence, his revolver still raised. But as he rounded the corner, he was met with the sudden blast of a shot—Nathaniel, firing from a concealed position, his aim as sharp as ever. Yipsiv, with a quick flick of his wrist, deflected the bullet with his cutlass, but the sound of it ringing off the steel blade was enough to make his heart race.

"Smart, but I can do that too, partner," Yipsiv said, his grin widening.

Nathaniel, still hidden behind the crates, reloaded his pistol with steady hands. He took a deep breath, eyes scanning the shadows, looking for any hint of movement. But the sound of footsteps in the distance told him Yipsiv wasn't far behind.

The silence was broken by a metallic screech as a large overhead rig—a series of hanging lights—suddenly jolted, swinging wildly as a mechanism in the ceiling malfunctioned. The lights swayed violently, casting long shadows across the room. Yipsiv saw the opportunity and Migrated again, using the distraction to zip behind one of the massive pillars that held the rig in place. He was almost out of sight, but Nathaniel had already anticipated this.

Before Yipsiv could get comfortable, Nathaniel fired another shot, aiming for the base of the pillar. The bullet embedded itself in the metal with a loud clang, sending sparks flying. It was just enough to make Yipsiv flinch, but not enough to hit him directly. The bullet had done its job—distracting him long enough for Nathaniel to reposition.

Yipsiv laughed, pushing himself out of cover with a dramatic spin, his coat whipping behind him. "You think you can keep up, Nate? I've got more tricks up my sleeve than you know."

Nathaniel moved again, hopping onto a catwalk above, looking down at the chaos below. He had a clear shot, but Yipsiv's Inspection was as sharp as ever, and he'd already anticipated Nathaniel's move. Yipsiv, spinning his cutlass like a blur, slashed upward with precision, deflecting another bullet that Nathaniel had fired.

The fight was starting to take on a rhythm—one attack after another, always countered, always dodged. Each of them danced around the battlefield, their weapons flashing in the dim light. Nathaniel knew he couldn't keep dodging forever, but Yipsiv wasn't giving him the chance to land a decisive blow.

Then, a loud crash echoed through the theater as a giant metal curtain—meant for theatrical effects—came crashing down from a pulley above. The heavy weight blocked both their lines of sight, momentarily cutting off the area between them. They were forced to regroup, each of them scrambling to find cover. Nathaniel stayed low, using the opportunity to reload, while Yipsiv dashed to another section of the theater, adjusting his stance and preparing for whatever came next.

To be continued...