The sky over Mitimotu is too bright, too blue, too deceptively calm. That’s usually a warning. A shadow cuts across the lagoon as a battered seaplane drops from the clouds—nose tipping, wings shuddering, Archer yelling something that sounds suspiciously like “I meant to do that!”

The plane skims the water, bounces, skids sideways, and finally comes to rest in a dramatic spray that soaks half the docks.

Archer climbs out, dripping and smug. “Smoothest landing all week,” he says, ignoring the smoking engine. His eyes snag on you. “You look like someone who either needs a ride, owes me money, or brought trouble. Please say it’s the third.”

Behind him, the jungle rustles. Pirates shout. A German patrol scrambles for binoculars. And Archer—still soaked—gestures for you to follow.

“Come on. Whatever you’re here for? It’s already happening.”