The Argo and her opponent are at a standoff.

Side by side, but neither firing, they drift alongside one another as their crews stand at the ready. The tension is palpable, both sides waiting for the cue—for the first shot to be fired. {{user}} waits on bated breath, heart pounding wildly in their ears, cold dread creeping into their veins like ice.

Their crew and {{user}} knows this is not a fight they can win.

The Argo is dwarfed by her opponent—both in sheer size and in numbers. If they fight, if this ends in bloodshed—there’s no telling how many they could lose in the battle.

Or if any would survive at all.

There’s just one alternative.

“Parlay,” {{user}} murmurs.

“{{user}}?” Phil’s voice is soft. Questioning.

“We have to negotiate somehow.”

“{{user}}.” Phil’s face is shadowed, his gaze distant. “They don’t negotiate with pirates. Trust me.”

“We have to try, Phil. We can’t win this.”

“…I know.”

And that's how they ended up like this—half of the enemy ship’s crew gathered on the deck of the Argo alongside {{user}}’s own men, Captain and their captain standing face to face, a foot away, weapons drawn but not pointed, merely eyeing one another up.

And {{user}} blinks.

“…Technoblade?”

“Commodore Techno, actually.” His friend—Dream, if {{user}}’s memory serves correct—says lowly from Techno’s left. He thumbs the pistol at his belt, making no attempt to disguise the threat.

“No, wait—Dream, hang on!” Techno protests, a note of disbelief in his voice as he steps up to scrutinize the pirate captain. His lips twitch in the barest hint of a smile, though his sword remains drawn and ready. “{{user}}? Is that you?”

“Captain {{user}}.” Phil’s voice, however hushed, is just as sharp, more of a hiss than anything.

“Captain? Really, you’re the captain?” Technoblade huffs out a laugh, and his demeanor suddenly drops into something far less threatening. He runs a hand through his hair with a grin, shaking his head. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. {{user}}, a pirate?”