David strolled into the Black Market Management Office like a man on a mission—with Pikachu perched confidently on his shoulder and zero clue what he was doing. After a brief conversation and a suspiciously bureaucratic series of nods, handwaves, and one form filled entirely in Comic Sans, he paid 1,000 Alliance coins for a one-day booth rental.
Boom. First official step of his grand plan: complete.
He was now, legally speaking, a black market entrepreneur. Just without a business plan. Or inventory. Or business sense.
One of the market staff led him through the maze of stalls—past fortune tellers, knockoff Poké Ball polishers, and someone selling Magikarp-shaped lollipops—until they arrived at his assigned spot.
And that's when it happened.
Standing at the stall right next to his… was him.
The shady egg peddler. The faker. The discount Larvitar dealer. The very man whose scam David had ruined earlier that day.
The guy squinted at David. "You!"
David froze. "Oh. Hey… brother? What a… totally-not-awkward coincidence, huh?"
He scratched the back of his head with a guilty grin, the universal body language for "please don't punch me, I have fragile bones."
The scammer's eye twitched like a broken Pokédex.
David blinked. "So… neighbors?"
To David's utter surprise, the shady egg merchant—who, by all logic, should've been foaming at the mouth with rage—was instead smiling like he'd just found a coupon for half-off betrayal.
David blinked.
This wasn't the "I'm gonna slash your tires" energy he was expecting.
Instead, the man exhaled like a Zen monk and spoke in a weirdly calm, almost impressed tone.
"May I ask, brother... what's your name?"
"Eh?" David tilted his head.
Now he was confused.
He narrowed his eyes, subtly inching back behind Pikachu like the tiny electric rodent would shield him from bodily harm. His thoughts raced:
Was this guy about to perform a dark ritual with my name? Track me down later? Send a Gengar to haunt my dreams?
"This feels... trap-adjacent," David muttered under his breath.
The man chuckled, as if reading his mind.
"No, no! Don't get the wrong idea," the scammer said, waving his hands quickly. "See, in the black market, things work a little different. If you miss a good deal, too bad. No chasing people down. No lawsuits. No Gyarados-related accidents."
David raised an eyebrow. "You sure? Feels like you're setting up for a very specific Gyarados-related accident."
The man laughed. "Nah, nah. I'm serious. The code here is simple: if someone spots your scam before you land the hit, that's on you. You lose fair and square."
Then, with a slight bow, he introduced himself like a very polite criminal.
"Alan. Alan Harper."
David's suspicious squint softened—slightly. "Huh... So, we're not about to enter a blood feud then?"
Alan shook his head. "Nope. If you were smart enough to sniff out my fake egg while the others were throwing imaginary cash around, that's my loss. Respect."
David blinked again. This was… unexpectedly wholesome for a man who tried to sell a glowing omelette as a Dratini.
"Well then," David said, standing a little straighter, "I guess I'll be running my completely legitimate cube business next to your extremely not-legitimate egg stand."
Alan gave a shrug. "Business is business, neighbor."
Still, David made a mental note:
Just because a scammer smiles, doesn't mean you stop watching your back.
Especially if his name sounds like a sitcom character.
***
David cupped his hands in an exaggerated martial arts salute, nearly knocking Pikachu off his shoulder in the process. He grinned with full dramatic flair.
"Thank you, brother, for enlightening this poor lost soul!"
Alan raised a curious brow.
"This little brother's name," David declared proudly, "is Jack Sparrow. But around these parts—Pacific City—they call me… Captain Bloody Dark Pirate King!"
Alan blinked. Then blinked again. His smile froze halfway, like someone who just realized they accidentally walked into a live-action roleplay convention.
There was a long, painful silence.
"…I'll just call you Jack," Alan said slowly, attempting to push the conversation forward like a wheelbarrow full of regret.
Then the name fully hit him.
His face turned the shade of expired mayonnaise. Cold sweat started pooling at his temples. His brain, now doing Olympic-level mental gymnastics, screamed: Why does that name feel like an active lawsuit?
[+30 negative emotion points from Alan…]
[+40 negative emotion points from Alan…]
[+50 negative emotion points from Alan…]
David, meanwhile, was beaming like he'd just harvested a field of emotional resentment. He could practically hear the sound of his system cheerfully ringing up each point like a sinister cashier.
"Relax, bro! Captain Jack is totally fine," he said, giving Alan a manly slap on the back that nearly sent the man flying into a pile of counterfeit Poké Balls.
Then, in the least piratey action possible, David crouched and began unpacking his goods—plastic boxes filled with homemade energy cubes in various shades of neon and "please don't eat me."
Pikachu looked at them with the same enthusiasm one reserves for kale.
As David arranged them meticulously on the table like a proud street vendor at a flea market, Alan couldn't help but watch—and then burst out laughing.
"Wait—hold on! Brother!" Alan said, nearly choking. "Are you out of your mind?!"
He pointed dramatically at the energy cubes like they were radioactive potatoes.
"You paid one thousand Alliance coins for a stall… to sell energy cubes? Here?! In this market?!"
David looked up, eyebrows raised.
Alan gestured to the entire shady back-alley of a marketplace that screamed "illegal Pokémon surgery" more than "family shopping fun."
"Who the hell comes to the black market to buy vitamins for Pokémon?" Alan exclaimed. "People here are looking for shady TMs, stolen fossils, and Poké Balls that explode on contact!"
David raised a single, intimidating brow.
Alan immediately stopped laughing, his expression doing a full 180 as panic set in.
"I-I-I mean, what I meant to say was…" Alan stammered, waving his arms like a malfunctioning windmill, "Look, business is really bad right now. Market's down. Inflation's up. Even a seasoned pro like me hasn't made a sale all day!"
He lowered his voice and leaned in conspiratorially. "There's just… no real demand for energy cubes, man."
David paused, frowning slightly as he processed the news. Now that he thought about it, he had walked the entire market earlier and hadn't seen a single booth selling energy cubes. Not even one bootleg "Power Pellets™" vendor in sight.
No competition sounded nice—until he realized it was because the demand had flatlined.
Was he trying to sell bottled air at a fish market?
Pikachu glanced up at David, then at the neon cubes, then back at Alan, expression reading something like: You mean we spent a thousand bucks to be the only vegan food stall at a barbecue festival?
David let out a quiet sigh.
He didn't regret starting the hustle. But maybe… just maybe, he should've read the room.
Still, he wasn't about to back down. If pirates gave up after a little market dip, they'd just be sailors.
And David? David was Captain Bloody Dark Pirate King.
David reached into the inside pocket of his hoodie like a secret agent about to pull out state secrets—and instead produced a single, crisp 100-coin Alliance note. He held it up with all the flair of someone revealing a rare Pokémon card at a kid's birthday party.
With exaggerated seriousness, he presented it to Alan like he was offering tribute to a king.
"Brother," David said, "I humbly request your wisdom."
Alan stared at the bill like it was the first decent thing he'd seen all day. His eyes lit up with a greed that would make a Meowth blush. Without missing a beat, he kicked the coin into his jacket pocket like a magician making a rabbit vanish.
The transformation was instant. Gone was the suspicious side-eye. Now Alan looked like a mentor from a self-help infomercial.
"My young padawan," he began, striking a pose like he was about to teach business strategy at a university—or possibly sell essential oils, "let me enlighten you."
David nodded solemnly, already halfway regretting this decision.
Alan launched into his explanation like he'd been waiting years for someone to ask.
"Now picture this, alright? Who comes to the black market? Mostly broke trainers hoping to stumble into a lucky deal. They're not here to splurge on fancy supplements. They're looking for sketchy evolution stones, used Poké Balls with questionable origins, and maybe a TM that falls off a truck."
David raised an eyebrow. That actually checked out.
Alan continued, warming to his lecture. "Now the people who make energy cubes—real Breeders, not wannabes blending berries in a salad bowl—they don't come here. Why? Because their time is worth more than the ten coins they'd make selling to broke teenagers."
He waved his hands dramatically, almost knocking over David's carefully arranged "jet" cubes.
"And here's the kicker," Alan leaned in, whispering like he was revealing a government conspiracy. "If a Breeder has low-level cubes? It's not worth their time to sell them here. Might as well dump 'em at the Breeder center. No haggling. No awkward market stalls next to counterfeit egg sellers."
David blinked. This was weirdly informative for a guy who tried to sell him a fake legendary egg an hour ago.
Alan stood up straight again, shifting into his next persona: "Economist of the Streets."
"Now the rich trainers," he said, "they're a whole other breed. These folks bathe in Full Restores. They don't shop in back alleys. They want quality, they want guarantees, and most importantly—they want receipts."
He pointed at the sky like he was delivering divine truth.
"They would rather pay triple the price at a certified shop, knowing their Pikachu won't sprout wings after eating a bootleg cube."
David nodded slowly. It made sense. The black market wasn't where the rich came to shop—it was where the broke came to gamble.
"Which is why," Alan concluded triumphantly, "you don't see anyone selling energy cubes around here. No supply, no demand."
David looked thoughtful, then gave a casual shrug.
"Yeah," he said. "But mine are cheap and they work."
Alan blinked. "Come again?"
"I'm not here to make a fortune," David said, casually gesturing at his colorful line-up of 'jet' cubes, "I'm here to harvest negative emotions. Making money is just… a side quest."
Alan's face twisted into that specific look people get when they realize they're dealing with someone who plays by a different rulebook—possibly one they wrote themselves using crayons and a mild head injury.
"You're doing what?"
David ignored him, standing proudly behind his stall. "They're affordable, versatile, and—most importantly—suspiciously effective. People will come."
Alan tilted his head. "You sure you're not here to cause any trouble on the market?"
David grinned, arms crossed like a man who had absolutely no idea what he was doing but refused to admit it.
"I'm the Captain Bloody Dark Pirate King," he said with mock gravity. "This is how we sail."
Pikachu facepawed from the corner of the stall.
Despite everything, Alan couldn't help but chuckle. "Alright, Captain. I'll be here when you crash and burn."
He patted David on the shoulder like a man comforting someone headed for an obvious disaster.
But David just stood there, unmoved, watching the alleyway as potential customers passed by—unaware that they were mere moments away from experiencing the magic (and mild confusion) of his patented jet cubes.
He wasn't worried.
After all, who wouldn't want to try something mysterious, cheap, and possibly life-changing?
Well… possibly digestive-changing too.
But that's part of the charm.